


Devoted Heart

by Sindaria



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Black Eagle / Silver Snow spoilers, Dorothea Has a Lot of Feelings and is Insecure About Them: The Fan Fic, Dorothea's POV throughout, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Follows in-game events, Hurt/Comfort, M!Byleth - Freeform, Rated M for later Chapters, Slow Burn, Some Byleth POV later, With some things added / fleshed out for context
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindaria/pseuds/Sindaria
Summary: Even after leaving the opera, Dorothea's maintained a flawless act. It's the only thing that stands between her and the deep-seated fears that seem to follow her everywhere she goes.But he sees through it. He always has. The only question is, can he ever see her as anything more than a fragile, foolish girl?





	1. Enigma

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you play FE3H for 50+ hours in a week. All the things the supports "left out," all the things I wanted to be able to say bugged me so much that I couldn't rest until I got these drabbles out. Also I just really love Dorothea, okay. 
> 
> Originally these were just going to follow the supports and major plot events, but I've added a lot to flesh things out and contextualize the relationship. Spoilers for all stages of the game, though, so be warned!

She doesn't know what to make of the new professor. 

There's his age, for one. He _looks_ as if he’s barely older than her, but he acts so composed. More so than even the professors she's certain are older than him. Then again, if everyone at the monastery acted their age, Manuela would probably be eighteen again, living the life of a starlet.

She’s tried to ask him on several occasions. At first he dodged the question, then said he simply didn't know. She assumed he was deliberately trying to be mysterious, and it was certainly working. Those eyes, revealing just the barest glimpse of unknown depths. How carefully he considered every word, rarely speaking unless absolutely necessary. Qualities that made him as appealing as he was frustrating, to be sure.

She'd only realized some time later that he was being sincere. He truly didn't know.

And now this…

_Okay._ How could one little word be so vexing? It would have been one thing if he’d said it with the tip of a smile to his lips, or an edge of humor to his voice. But he was as stoic as ever, his eyes piercing through her, finding truths she did not want uncovered. 

She’d teased him at the time, once she composed herself. But she’d let something slip, too. Something she hadn’t even realized she felt until that moment. Yes, the prospect of being the person he cared for did make her happy. So much so that she’d invested every ounce of mischievous energy she could into immediately hiding that confession beyond an impenetrable wall of harmless flirtation. 

What else was she to do? Stammer and blush? Run off to her room like Bernie? Buzz about in fumbling ignorance like Ferdinand? That wouldn’t do at all. She’d handled it as only Dorothea could, and was rewarded with the slightest hint of pink in his cheeks. 

Then she’d… _fled_ was a strong word. Walked briskly. Strolled with expedience. To… her room. She is there now, trying not to think of the possible sincerity behind his words. He couldn’t be sincere. It wasn’t proper. No matter that she was an adult or that they were so close in age. He’s her professor, her mentor, and she needs to stop thinking of that single, frustrating word. 

Oh, why couldn’t he have said anything else! Even silence would have sufficed. 

“Alright, Dory, get a grip,” she mutters to herself. Her cheeks are flaming. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

And even if he did--even if he truly meant that he’d like to be a fixture in her life from now on, like some grand confession in a lovely aria--she can’t accept it. At best he’s the son of a former knight, and a professor’s salary can’t be that awe-inspiring. If she allows herself to become swept up in the possibility of that single word, she’ll end up on the streets again. He’ll tire of her once her looks fade, and she’ll be all alone once more. Unsafe. Unloved. 

Dorothea wraps her arms about herself, sinking more deeply into her bed. What does it matter that her heart flutters when she thinks of him now? He’s no different than the other impractical people she’s fancied from time to time. Men and women who make her pulse quicken, but provide no sense of security. 

He’s no different. He’ll find someone else to look at that way. Someone else he can completely unravel with a single word. _He’s no different._

She tells herself this, over and over. Yet despite her insistence, somehow the truth of it never reaches her heart.


	2. Mask

Months later, she’s no closer to convincing herself her professor isn’t any different from any other person she’s fancied.

And she does fancy him. Not to a _distracting_ extent, exactly. She’s still pursuing her goals at the monastery, still going on miserable first dates with miserable men who assume too much about how eager she is to win them over. 

But she thinks of him more often than she wants to admit. She daydreams, replaying that conversation over and over in her mind. What if she’d been more bold? What if she’d been more honest? What if he really meant it, and she’d somehow caught his eye? What if he didn’t see her as a student, but a woman to be cherished? 

Deep in her heart, Dorothea longed for that. She always had, but it was… impractical. Her would-be husband didn’t need to cherish her. He didn’t even need to love her. He just needed to make a vow he wouldn’t break. 

That’s the life she’s promised to secure for herself. That’s the life she wants, because it’s a life of guarantees. Byleth can’t offer her that, and she supposes that’s what makes it safe to fantasize about what might have been were she someone else. It’s harmless self-indulgence and nothing more. 

She tells herself this over and over, too, but it unravels every time he looks at her in _that way_. 

At first, she just thought that look was of a stern professor who’d had more than enough of his student’s antics. But there’s a pattern to that look. He gives her that look when she’s being more… _Dorothea the Diva_ than usual. When she’s flirting too desperately, trying too hard to fulfill the role of vapid starlet. 

She resists it initially. Resents it, even, and actively tries to get under his skin by acting even more outrageous than before. At one point she utterly humiliates herself by trailing her fingers down the front of his robes in the middle of class. No one is watching--she made sure of it--but she crosses a line. That time he _had_ looked at her like he was through with her antics, and Dorothea avoided him for a solid week after. 

The next time he looked at her--the next time he saw through her--she didn’t rise to the challenge. She shrank away from it, afraid of what he might see. She was subdued, reserved, avoiding as much conflict with him as she could manage without boring herself to tears. 

Perhaps that was what caused him to seek her out.

She sits in the dining hall, a notebook open in front of her as her mind wanders. There are a few students around still, but the kitchen is closed, and Dorothea isn’t entertaining random “gentlemen” for once. Instead her quill taps lightly against the table, the page of disparate song verses all but abandoned as she loses herself in her thoughts. 

“Are you alright?” 

She draws in a sharp breath, his voice startling her more than it should. It’s not uncommon to see him wandering the monastery at all hours, and she didn’t exactly try to hide herself away. 

“Professor? I--” She practically stammers, realizing in that moment that she’s far more out of sorts than she’s let herself believe. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.” 

Dorothea tries to smile at him, but she knows it doesn’t reach her eyes. His say everything, staring down at her like that. Looking through her like always. 

“Actually…” She commits it to words before she can think herself out of it. “Could we talk for a bit? Somewhere a little more… private?” 

Over the past few weeks, she’s teased him repeatedly about going someplace more private for “personal instruction.” Just thinking about it now makes her want to apologize, but she won’t. It’s enough that he seems to know the difference between those requests and this one. A benefit to how canny he is, she supposes. 

“The greenhouse was empty when I walked by just a few minutes ago,” he offers, and she gladly accepts.

They walk in uncommon silence, Dorothea gathering her thoughts and her resolve. She’s absolutely not going to tell him how much one word from him has affected her, but she’ll tell him why she’s been acting so strange. Why she’s gone from inappropriate propositions to… whatever this is, this uncharacteristic meekness. No. Not meekness. Self-preservation.

The strong smell of lilies carries on the breeze and Dorothea smiles. It’s just as he said. The greenhouse is empty, even the attendant having long since retired from their duties for the day. She sits on the edge of a sturdy planter, idly surveying the Albinean berry bushes tucked in a tidy row across the greenhouse. Tea would be nice right now. At least it would give her something to do with her hands.

For as nervous as she suddenly is, though, she’s grateful he doesn’t prompt her. He leans against a column, unassuming. Unhurried, as if she isn’t interrupting his free time. 

“Okay. Well. I’ll just come right out and say it: I find you more than a little difficult to be around.” One dark green brow arches in question, and Dorothea continues. “I know, I know. I’m your student and you’re just trying to watch out for me. But the way you look at me sometimes…” 

The pads of her fingers rub over her arm; a comforting gesture she doesn’t even realize she’s doing at first. She looks up at him, expecting to see that exact look now. But for once, Byleth’s gaze only seems to be taking in what she’s actually offering.

“It’s like you’re seeing right through me,” she finally confesses.

He pushes away from the column and--to her surprise--comes to sit beside her. There’s nothing untoward about it. There’s space enough between them that even Seteth would find it respectable. Well. Maybe not Seteth. But the rest of the faculty. Still, her pulse thrums wildly, drowning out her thoughts.

“How do you mean?” he asks. 

She hasn’t thought about how she’ll explain any of this. She wishes she could speak more logically, like Lin or Ingrid, but that’s just not her. Everything’s either carefully constructed and mostly fake, or it comes straight from her heart. She knows which this has to be before she even opens her mouth.

“I don’t have anything to call my own,” she begins. “No land, no birthright, no fortune. Little knowledge or battle skill.” She can see his gaze narrowing out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I can hold my own, but I fall behind the others, easily. In any case,” she continues before he can protest, “I think that’s why I always clung to my popularity as a diva. And that’s why, even after leaving the stage behind, I kept up the act.” 

She’s never admitted that to anyone. Manuela understands, so it goes unspoken between the two of them. But no one else would get it. Somehow, some part of her thinks he might. The thought is so strong that she meets his gaze again, confident in her assessment. 

“When I look at you, it's like your eyes are accusing me,” she says. “Telling me you see right through it. That's what I mean when I say it's difficult being around you.”

“I’m… sorry,” he says, his brows drawn together. “I never intended to make you feel that way.” 

“No, don’t apologize,” she says hurriedly. 

Before she realizes what she’s doing, she rests her hand atop his. It’s such a brief, innocent touch, but it sends a thrill through her the likes of which she’s never felt before. She’s torn between wanting to pull her hand away or keep it there forever. She opts for the former, though with more grace than her internal struggle would suggest.

“I know you don't mean anything bad by it. I'm just self-conscious, I guess.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking away from him. “Hey, I know this may sound nuts, but maybe you could… show me one of your weaknesses?” 

His brows lift in silent question, prompting Dorothea to rush out a response.

“You know my biggest fear. Maybe if I know one of yours, I’ll feel less… I don’t know. Vulnerable.” 

That’s exactly what she feels, and she hates it. It reminds her of being alone on the streets. Always exposed, never safe. 

Byleth is predictably silent, the void of conversation stretching on for so long that Dorothea is tempted to laugh it all off, play it up as a joke. Finally, he speaks, and what he says is… not what she would have expected.

“My greatest fear used to be watching my father die and not being able to do anything about it. He’s all I’ve ever known--all I’ve ever had--so the thought of losing him has always been something I don’t think I could bear.” 

“That’s understandable,” she says quietly. “I don’t really remember my parents, so I suppose I got off easy on that one. I can’t imagine losing someone I’d spent so much time with.” After a moment, she realizes something, her brow furrowing. “You said ‘used to be.’ It’s not anymore?” 

“It’s still there,” he admits, “but less immediate than before. My daily life revolves around this monastery now. Around the students I teach and the… lives I shape.” 

She’s never heard him laugh before. He does it now, but it’s not a pleasant sound. There’s something almost sad in it. Desperate. She finds herself wishing she’d kept her hand on his. 

“Truth be told, I don’t feel like I have any business shaping anyone’s life, and the thought of leading any of you astray… that’s my greatest fear these days.” 

She’s tempted to laugh, because the idea is just… absurd. But he’s being vulnerable, and he hasn’t laughed at her. No matter how much she trusts that he wouldn’t lead them astray, his fears aren’t something to dismiss. She knows that.

“It’s a big responsibility,” she admits, “but I’d say you’ve done pretty well by us so far.” 

She smiles at him, the expression reaching her eyes this time. To her great surprise and delight, he smiles back. Perhaps that’s what makes her press her luck, her heart more open than she’d like it to be.

“You’ve certainly done well by me.” 

He regards her for a long moment, as if waiting for her to carry the compliment into flirtation. Some part of her wants to, but she ignores it for once. Right here, right now, there’s no need to maintain the act.

“I’m not sure I have.” 

It’s far from the response she expects, and she looks up at him, questioning. Is he unhappy with her progress? She admitted to doing worse than the other students, but surely he wouldn’t admonish her _now_. 

"I don't mean as your professor," he adds. "I mean as your friend. Because if you truly believe you have nothing to offer…"

Her laugh is automatic; uncomfortable. "I didn't say that. I think you're reading too much into things, Professor."

She knows it's it's a lie the moment it leaves her lips. She expects him to call her out on it. What she doesn't expect is for him to rest his hand atop hers. Her breath catches in her throat and she looks up at him, quickly finding herself lost in his eyes.

And even more lost in the words he speaks.

"You're searching for a husband because you're afraid you have nothing more to offer than your looks and your talent. You keep up this act around everyone because you’re afraid they won’t like what they see if you ever slip.” 

Dorothea feels her throat constrict. How does he _know_? Is she that transparent? “I don’t…” 

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asks it so casually, as if he isn’t tearing down everything she’s spent her entire life building up. 

She can’t speak, so she doesn’t even try. She just stares at him, at his eyes that have suddenly become so much more expressive than she’s ever seen them. They’re resolute, as if he truly believes in what he’s about to say.

“I see someone who cares so deeply for other people that she puts them before herself nine times out of ten. Someone who goes out of her way to make everyone else feel better, even at great cost to herself. Someone with so much warmth and compassion in her heart, despite what she’s endured.”

With every word, he chips away at the wall she’s built. Oh, she’s friendly with almost everyone. Overly-friendly, most of the time. But there’s always a barrier, and he’s bringing it down. He never speaks this much, never with this much emotion, and of course he’s using it to render her utterly defenseless. 

And she feels so dangerously exposed, but also… safe. She knows he won’t do anything to hurt her. Not intentionally, anyway.

“You _are_ the heart of the Black Eagles, Dorothea,” he states so vehemently. “The heart of Garreg Mach. That’s what I see when I look at you, and the fact that you don’t see it means I haven’t been a very good friend to you.” 

She doesn’t want his friendship, she realizes. Or rather, that’s not all she wants. She once said a future with him would make her happy, but it’s never felt more true than right now. Deep in her heart, she knows she won’t be satisfied with anything else. 

And that’s why she has to leave. Right now. Because if she stays for even a moment longer, that’s it. She’ll reveal everything to him, every inconvenient emotion, and there won’t be any coming back from that.

She draws her hand from underneath his, missing the warmth immediately. Standing, Dorothea forces herself to meet his eyes. “I… Thank you, Professor.” No. That feels wrong. Her smile softens and she corrects it. “Byleth. It… means more than you’ll know.” 

The pounding of her heart seems to thrum all the way into her throat as she follows a whim and leans down to brush her lips across his cheek. She pulls back before she can do anything foolish, then leaves him yet again, unable to bear his look and what it now does to her heart.


	3. Wish

Dorothea crumples the letter and tosses it into the fire with a growl of frustration. It’s the fourth to meet such a fate, and she doubts it’ll be the last.

There’s a giddy excitement humming through the monastery. This close to the ball, everyone’s caught up in the fever of it. But she’s caught up in her own sort of fever--a hell that’s consumed her waking thoughts for far too long.

She’s fallen for him.

She knows it now, in mind as well as heart. How could she not? The moment he told her she was more than her looks, more than her talent, she was completely and utterly doomed. No one’s ever told her that before. Not directly. She’s never let them get close enough to see her fears. 

But somehow he found his way there. This stoic, mysterious man who says so little yet conveys so much. She’s learned to read his subtle expression; clings to them as though she needs them like her next breath. He was being sincere. She knows this. She just doesn’t know if his sincerity was a kind professor comforting his student, or… something else.

_Okay._

Still that single word plagues her. If not for that, she wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. He’s resisted her charms, resisted her. He’s given every indication he doesn’t see her that way, and yet that one word…

Dorothea sighs and puts quill to paper again.

_My dearest…_

Ugh. No. She crumples that one immediately and it meets a swift end in the fire. In her most private thoughts, she might think that word to describe him--as well as a host of others less saccharine--but writing it is out of the question. 

_Byleth,_

That’s better. She started all the others with professor, but this is not a letter from a student to her instructor. She wants to make that clear from the beginning. 

_I’m sure you have many offers to entertain. A handsome man like you? There's no way you'll be alone at the ball. But if you are alone, and if you might want company, you could do worse than myself._

So arrogant. She supposes it’s better than being vulnerable, and forges ahead.

_Would you meet me at the Goddess Tower tonight? I just want to…_

Want to what? Confess all of these inconvenient feelings that have lived in her heart for months? Dorothea actually laughs at the thought, even as her heart seizes in her chest. No, she won’t be doing any confessing. It’s too dangerous. 

“It’s not as if he’s even going to show,” she reminds herself. 

And it’s that thought that leads her to slide the current letter to the side and begin again. This time she doesn’t question herself. She just puts ink to paper and bares her soul, the way the great poets do.

_Byleth, _

_I once told you that it feels as if you can see right through me, to the self-conscious, frightened girl underneath. If you truly can, then maybe you already know what I’m about to say. Maybe it’s obvious, and I’m not nearly as talented an actress as I’d like to think. _

_If it is obvious, then I suppose I already have my answer. If not… then you’re in for a bit of a shock. I’m sorry about that. I wish I didn’t feel this way, but I do. Even though I know you’ll never read this, I still need to confess it somewhere._

_I’m absolutely enchanted by you. Your strength, your compassion, your tireless pursuit of what you know is right. It’s a little intimidating, to be honest, but I find myself drawn to you even when I know I shouldn’t be. I think that much is true for the others, too, but it’s different for me._

_Because ever since you told me you might want to spend your life with me, I’ve been able to think of nothing else. No one else. I know you were probably just joking, but if you weren’t--if there’s any chance you might feel the same for me as I do for you--will you meet me at the Goddess Tower tonight? _

_Yours,  
Dorothea_

“Oh, Dory. How ridiculous you’ve become,” she admonishes, her cheeks aflame. 

She folds the letter carefully, almost reverently, and slips it into her bodice, close to her heart. Then she finishes composing the letter she actually intends to give him. It’s not so revealing, not so honest. Safer, but also… disappointing. When she signs it with just her name and a flirtatious little heart--so he can be sure she doesn’t mean anything by it, of course--it feels like holding so much of herself back.

Dorothea sighs. It’ll have to do. If he shows, she’ll… continue being her usual, outrageous self. The same self-assured flirt who never truly means it, certainly as nothing more than banter. Unless he gives her any indication that--

But he won’t. He probably won’t even show, and that’s the only reason she feels confident enough to leave the letter in the first place.

*** 

He does show. Goddess help her, he’s there when she arrives, as if waiting for her. He’s turned down so many dances this evening from so many beautiful girls, but he’s here. For her. 

_Alright, Dorothea. Just calm down. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything._

Her heart doesn’t believe that. It did the most ridiculous little flip when she saw him, and now it’s hammering so hard and so fast that she’s sure he can hear it, even from a distance. 

“Ah, Professor!” Best to call him that. Just in case. “You showed up!” 

She catches herself in a laugh that turns a little more giddy than she planned. It was just meant to be a girlish giggle. Teasing, not taking anything seriously. Even as her skin flushes and her legs forget how to work for a moment. 

“And why do you look so happy?” he asks, his beautiful eyes betraying nothing.

Of course they wouldn’t. He has no weaknesses. Not like her. She’s betraying everything, she just knows it.

“Why, because you’re here, of course! I’m the one who called you here, remember?” She stumbles at first but covers it with another laugh. “You came here because you read the letter I sent you, right?” 

For a moment, Dorothea feels a stab of raw panic. Oh, Goddess. Did she leave the right letter? She thinks she did, but what if she left the other one? Some crazed part of her considers patting her bodice just to check, but then he’ll ask about it, and that won’t do.

“...What letter?” he asks, and the slightest pull of his brows tells her he truly doesn’t know. 

At first she feels relief. If he didn’t read the letter, it doesn’t matter if she left the wrong one. She can sneak into his quarters and get it back, with him none the wiser. It’s such a relief that at first, Dorothea doesn’t even realize the implications.

When she does, her heart trips over several beats in a row. “Are you saying this is… a coincidence?” 

No one would go to the Goddess Tower tonight unless they intended to meet someone. Even if he doesn’t believe in such fairy tales, they’re all over the school. He’d know to avoid this place if he truly didn’t want assumptions to be made about his intentions. 

But then… it doesn’t have to be one or the other, does it? There’s every chance he didn’t actually intend to meet _her_ here. He seemed so surprised by her being here. Dorothea’s heart drops into her stomach and she isn’t able to hide her disappointment. Even as she couches it in some nonsense about destiny, she knows the truth. 

He’s here for someone else. Of course he is. There are so many girls better suited to him, girls with something to offer. He’d have his pick. She’s seen the way people look at him. 

_Probably the same way I look at him…_

Dorothea is barely conscious of the words that make it past her lips. It’s all an act, the same part she plays in the face of every rejection. She acts confident, flirtatious, yet all she wants to do is flee. 

And then she can’t help herself. Suddenly, she has to know.

“Did you know it’s been almost nine whole moons since you arrived at Garreg Mach?” Not even a year. How has she fallen so hard in so little time? “You must have found a special someone by now, haven’t you, Professor?” 

She recalls a conversation she had with Manuela once, where the older diva was driving herself mad wanting to know why her latest beau had chosen someone else. What they had over her. She’d asked the woman why on earth she would do such a thing, couldn’t imagine putting herself through that pain.

_I just… had to know. There was nothing logical about it._

She understands now. All too well. 

Byleth hesitates. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and he looks decidedly uncomfortable. A million thoughts race through Dorothea’s mind, kicking up her insecurities like so many clouds of dust. But she isn’t able to focus on any of them because for a moment--just a moment--he sways on his feet. It looks as if he’s going to take a step toward her. She holds her breath.

“I… have.” 

Another two words to haunt her, hound her every thought. Were this a stage play, some sweeping tale of romance, he would close the distance between them now. He would take her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless. 

But this isn’t a play. Byleth doesn’t move toward her, nor does he say anything else. The faintest blush colors Dorothea’s cheeks, more embarrassment than anything else.

She shores up her courage, pulls the mask more firmly in place. “Ooh, who could it be? You’ve made me so curious.” He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before he can say anything. She doesn’t want to know after all. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to pry. These things are private, after all.” 

“They are,” he says, and for a moment, it looks as if he wants to say more.

He doesn’t. He never does. And if there’s one thing Dorothea’s learned, it’s when to make a graceful retreat.

“Well, I’d better get going,” she says as casually as she can manage, despite the words catching in her throat. “I wouldn’t want to be in the way if your special someone shows up.” 

She turns from him, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. _Not now. Please, not now. He doesn’t need to see yet another weakness._

“Dorothea…” 

He knows. She sucks in a breath, wills herself not to cry, and turns back to him with her mask firmly in place. She must be hallucinating now, because it looks as if he’s stepped closer. 

“Yes, Professor?” Playful. Bubbly. Everything but what she feels right now.

It’s not right. She sees his features fall, as much emotion in his eyes as she saw in the greenhouse. It takes her breath away, and she wants to recant immediately. Whatever she’s done wrong, she wants to fix it. 

He looks up at the tower, but Dorothea doesn’t follow his gaze. She watches him, waits for any sign of what might be going through his head. She hates that he says so little, reveals so little. Hates and loves it at the same time.

“...Nothing,” he finally says, not looking at her. “I just wanted to wish you a good night.” 

“Oh, there’s no need to waste your wish on that,” she waves him off. “You’re here. It’s already a good night.” 

She can’t bear the scrutiny when he finally looks at her. She gives him a brilliant smile, then goes back to her graceful retreat. “I really should be getting back, though. I do hope you’ll share a dance with me later.” 

Dorothea doesn’t wait for a response. She just leaves him there, heading back inside, desperately hoping the din of the crowd will drown out her own thoughts.

*** 

Like some scorned lover, she dances with everyone who will accept. Even Ferdinand. 

She feels ridiculous, but it keeps her busy; it keeps her smiling. She’s never done well on her own. She needs people around, needs an audience to see her put on this grand act, or else it all falls apart. People expect her to be at her most flirtatious here, and so she is. She dances with men and women alike. She’s shameless in approaching anyone who remotely catches her eye.

All while she avoids searching the edges of the room for him. 

The night stretches on, something that should have felt limitless, now just a way to pass the time. She excuses herself from Claude’s more rambunctious brand of dancing. It was a nice change of pace, but she’s exhausted as she all but limps to an empty table, her feet not appreciating her choice of heels. She slips off one shoe and the relief is instant as she rubs the arch through her stocking. 

“Finally met your match?” 

The tone of voice is so surprising that she doesn’t even recognize its owner at first. The response comes to her lips, automatic, but when she looks up, it falls silent. He’s… smiling. The barest hint of a smile. It’s not that he never does it, but it’s so rare that every time is an event. 

Dorothea all but gapes at him, and he nods down at the shoe. Grasping at her composure, she laughs. “Oh, they may have won the battle, but the war is still mine.” 

“I’m thinking that dance is out of the question, though.” 

She nearly trips over herself to disagree, but regains some semblance of calm before answering. “Oh come now, Professor. I’m made of stronger stuff than that.” She slips the shoe back on and stands, ignoring the stab of pain. “If you’re offering, I will gladly accept.” 

Dorothea holds out her hand to him. She’s sure she’s trembling. She desperately hopes he won’t notice, but the way he’s staring down at her hand makes that seem unlikely.

“I won’t bite,” she teases, regaining some of that playfulness. “Not unless you ask nicely.” 

“I… don’t exactly know how to dance. It wasn’t high on my father’s list of priorities.” 

It’s not a weakness, per se, but it bolsters her. She can feel herself donning that familiar persona again. 

“What, are mercenaries not as fond of throwing extravagant balls as nobles?” She flashes him a smile and holds out her hand with more confidence. It isn’t shaking anymore. “You’ve taught me so much. Why don’t you let me teach you something for a change? It’s easy, I promise.” 

Just when she thinks she’s as composed as she can possibly be, he takes her hand. Even through the glove, his touch is warm, his grip strong. Stronger than is warranted, considering the occasion, but she doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

She’s shaking again, her legs turning to jelly. It’s ridiculous, when she’s danced with so many different people tonight. Somehow the simple act of him taking her hand is enough to render her useless. 

It’s probably for the best that the dances “permitted” by the monastery are incredibly chaste. When she leads him onto the dance floor and instructs him in the proper position, her heart already threatens to beat out of her chest. All he’s doing is touching her waist--barely--and grasping her hand. Moving somewhat clumsily at first, in a way that never puts them in close contact. Not even remotely. And still her face is flushed. There’s no hiding it.

“I know for a fact your footwork’s better than this,” she admonishes gently. “Do you remember when you taught me the proper way to read an opponent’s movement? Think of that.” 

He must, because he improves immediately. There’s a grace to his movement she’s witnessed on the battlefield, and before long it’s obvious he doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing. That leaves him free to look down at her, and Goddess. Her heart fully stops. 

“You have such beautiful eyes,” she blurts out. 

She swears she sees the hint of a blush on his cheeks. He’s probably just flushed from dancing. “Thank you.” 

Her inclination is to ramble, to fill the silence with words that misdirect. But she’s afraid of what she’ll say if he keeps looking at her like that. Mercifully, Byleth doesn’t give her the chance to stumble over herself. 

“Earlier…” 

_Oh._ Had she thought him merciful? How silly. She opens her mouth to divert the conversation, but for once he speaks first.

“I meant to ask you what you would wish for. Assuming the rumors were true,” he adds. 

Her heart stutters out an inconsistent rhythm. She refuses to let herself think of what he might mean by that. Byleth doesn’t dance around what he wants to say. He uses few words, but he uses them with care. Always. 

“Oh, the usual,” she says dismissively. “Fame. Fortune. A dashing gentleman at my beck and call. What does any woman want?” 

“Thea.” 

She stops breathing for a moment, and everything in her is held rapt. She even forgets to move, leading to a moment of awkwardness as he prompts her into the next step. 

Dorothea is no stranger to nicknames. She uses them all the time, and receives them in return. But this is the first time he’s called her anything other than her full name. Thea sounds far sweeter coming from his lips. She wants to savor it. 

“You’re doing it again,” her laughter is nervous. She can’t help it. “Looking right through me.” She knows what he wants, and she relents without much of a fight. “Oh, alright. The truth is…” She looks up at him and any nerve she might have summoned vanishes in an instant. She can’t be honest with him in the way her heart wants her to be. But what she gives him is still the truth. “I’d wish for the next five years to be just like this. Full of warmth and light and people I care about who care about me in return.” 

For all her silly, single-minded focus on him tonight, she’s truly grateful for her classmates. She’s met so many people here who she’ll always remember, long after they stop remembering her. 

“That’s a good wish,” he says softly, that small smile returning. 

“And what would your wish be?” 

He turns with her, and her eyes never leave his. “There are too many to count. But when I decided to look for you, I wished you’d stop feeling like you have to hide who you really are from everyone. That you’d learn to trust that the people who are worth caring about will care about you no matter what.”

She gapes at him, unable to breathe for the longest time. He rarely says so much, yet every time he’s done so, it’s knocked her completely off balance. There’s just… _so much_ there. She can’t even process all of it. 

_When I decided to look for you?_ He can’t mean he came to the Goddess Tower specifically hoping she’d be there. Without having even read her letter. That would mean…

“And… do you…?” she asks tentatively. “Care about me?” 

He opens his mouth to respond, and Dorothea is sure her heart beats just for this moment. They’ve stopped moving, but she still feels like she’s floating. She swears the hand grasping hers transitions into something more tender. 

She waits. And waits. Until suddenly she realizes he looks much, much paler than he should. His eyes aren’t focused on her anymore. They aren’t focused on anything. “Byleth?” 

And then he’s falling, dropping like a sack full of stones. It’s all she can do to keep him from meeting the ground, and even then, she has to practically drop to her knees to do it. He’s limp in her arms, unresponsive as she touches his face. 

“Someone help!” she calls, even as Seteth comes running. 

The Dorothea who first arrived at the monastery might be perturbed that he’s decided to faint at a time like this. The woman she is now is terrified of losing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters I have pre-written. (Well, that's not exactly true. I already have the post-timeskip reunion written, but there are at least two more I want to do before that.) Considering how much the need to write this has hounded me, I'll likely post the next part soon. All comments are greatly appreciated, though. <3


	4. Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another warning about major plot spoilers. And thanks so much for the kudos and bookmarks so far. <3 Once again I can't seem to let this rest, so here's the new chapter, earlier than expected. One more before the post-timeskip reunion, and then I want to do at least another two after that.

She’s there when Jeralt is killed. 

She doesn’t know the man well, but her heart breaks for Byleth as she watches him cradle his dying father in his arms. She sees the shimmer of tears in his eyes, watches them roll down his cheeks, and she has to look away. Only later does she realize she was crying, too, feeling that pain as keenly as if it were her own.

Some of her classmates speak of vengeance, but as they bring Jeralt back to Garreg Mach on a cart, his body covered by a sheet, all Dorothea can think about is her conversation with Byleth in the greenhouse. 

One of his greatest fears has come to pass. What can she even say to him? What can she possibly do to ease the grief she knows he must be feeling? She asks herself that question so many times over the next few days. There’s no laughter at the monastery, no light-hearted banter. The Black Eagles' classroom is full of students who have no idea what to do for their professor but follow his lead. 

And if Dorothea hadn’t seen his tears, she might be coaxed into thinking nothing was amiss. The members of the clergy are dressed in mourning wear, the chapel is especially busy, and the flags that bear Seiros’ crest are flown at half-mast, but Byleth acts as though it’s just another week of instruction. 

She knows, though. She can see the subtle changes in his expression when he gives lectures, in his movement when he leads drills. He’s hurting, and he’s doing his best to just soldier on. She speaks to him once, catching him out and about in the monastery. She begins to think that maybe this is what he needs. Maybe the best path for healing is simply to move forward, resume a routine, and exist outside the shadow of grief.

But something in her senses that’s not exactly true. 

Rather than confront Byleth directly, she seeks out Alois. He always spoke so highly of Jeralt and he seems like the best person to help her accomplish her plan. The normally cheerful, boisterous man has been far more reserved lately, but when she asks him to talk about Jeralt, his face absolutely lights up. 

Listening to him speak, Dorothea smiles and laughs for the first time since it happened. Alois laughs, too, that loud guffaw that has frightened many a fish away from the monastery pond. He talks for nearly an hour straight, until he realizes he’s late for a seminar. All the while, Dorothea takes notes and composes her thoughts into somewhat coherent verse. 

She spends the rest of the evening speaking to anyone who knew Jeralt from before. Rhea, Seteth, Leonie--anyone and everyone who might have an opinion. What she hears is touching, and she can only hope she’ll do it justice as she sits alone in the choir room, putting words to notes, arranging and rearranging. 

Dorothea doesn’t realize how late it is until Cyril comes to dust in the choir room. She excuses herself and heads up to Manuela’s office, hoping her old friend might offer some advice. She’s nearly composed a full song, but it feels as if it’s missing something.

“The words are lovely,” she says, looking over the scraps of paper Dorothea has cobbled together, “but the transitions are a bit weak. You need to tell a cohesive story throughout.” She picks up a quill and dips it in the inkwell. “May I?” 

“Please.” She tries not to sound too desperate, too eager, but she needs to get this right.

“It’s sweet of you to do this for your professor,” Manuela says as her quill scratches over the paper. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” 

“I just needed to do _something_.” She doesn’t feel as anxious confessing to Manuela as she does to Byleth, but there’s still a thrum of uncertainty there. 

The older woman says nothing, focusing on the composition. When she hands it back to Dorothea, the two collaborate on a few word choices and then… it’s finished. Dorothea looks down at the heavily revised sheet, her gut twisting itself into knots.

“If you need any help practicing that, you know who to call,” Manuela offers.

Dorothea smiles at her friend, even going so far as to give the woman an affectionate hug. “Meet me in the choir room tomorrow, once your classes are done for the day? I should… try and get some sleep.” 

She isn’t sure she’ll be able to, but it’s worth a shot. Manuela agrees to meet her there, then lets her go. As she heads through the halls, making her way toward the stairs, she notices something out of the corner of her eye. That brief glimpse is accompanied by the soft rumble of a familiar voice. 

“Why didn’t he ever say anything to me?” 

She dares a glance, finding Byleth in the middle of his father’s old office, a book in his hands. He doesn’t seem to notice her, and she knows she should give him his privacy. This doesn’t concern her in the slightest. It’s a family matter, after all. 

But he looks so… defeated. Crestfallen, even. In the glimmer of candlelight, she swears she can see a shimmer to his cheeks, as if he’s been crying again. That’s what draws her in, her body seeming to act of its own volition to carry her into the room. 

“Byleth?” His name falls so softly from her lips. Nearly as soft as the way Marianne speaks. 

His hands tighten on the book--an old journal, from the looks of it--and at first he has the look of a caged animal about him. It fades, his hands relaxing as he closes the journal. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says in a rush. “I… was working on something with Manuela, and I heard you speaking.” 

“Sorry,” he says in return, running a hand through his dark green hair, the strands parting like silk around his fingers. “I didn’t even realize I was speaking aloud.” 

She knows she should just excuse herself, but her curiosity gets the best of her. “Is that your father’s?” 

He looks down at the journal and nods, his brows drawing together. She can’t help but feel as if she doesn’t belong here. This is a sacred space. It belongs to Byleth and Jeralt, not to her. She can always check in on him tomorrow.

“I really didn’t mean to intrude,” she grabs the door frame, a reminder to follow through on respecting his privacy. “I’ll just leave you to it.” 

“Wait,” he calls after her as she starts to leave. Hope springs forth within her, though for what, she doesn’t know. “I could use your company.” 

Well that’s… certainly something to be hopeful about. Tucking the papers away, Dorothea leaves the relative safety of the doorway and steps into the office. He didn’t ask her to close the door, so she leaves it open. He doesn’t need any rumors circulating at a time like this. 

Byleth gestures to one of the plush chairs and she sits, smoothing down her skirts. He never relinquishes the journal even as he settles into a chair of his own. It’s as if it’s some kind of life line; one last connection to Captain Jeralt, perhaps. 

“A few weeks before he died, my father told me he was planning to leave something for me. Something that would… explain things.” 

Dorothea’s brows shoot up. She looks at the journal, then at him. “Explain what things, exactly?” 

“I wish I knew,” he says with a frown. “There are entries in this that date back to before I was born, but whatever explanation he was hoping I’d find…” 

She leans forward just a bit, meeting his gaze. “Are there things you need explained?” 

He purses his lips, and those bewitching eyes of his seem to search for something in her own. When he looks away, she’s positive he hasn’t found it. Of course he wouldn’t. She’s not the person other people find anything in. Nothing beyond the superficial, anyway.

“I don’t… know much about my early life. I don’t really remember my childhood, and there are questions he always refused to answer. I had no idea he was a Knight of Seiros at Garreg Mach. Not until we came here. Now I come to learn that, according to this, I was here back then, too.”

“What?” she blinks at him, more than a little intrigued by the mystery of it all. 

And enchanted by the fact that he says more to her in private than he does anywhere else. It’s a silly thing to be pleased by, especially at a time like this, so she tucks those feelings away to examine later.

“I was born here, I guess. But my father took me away. He… lied about me being killed in a fire, just to get me away from this place.” 

His attention turns inward, his gaze focusing on nothing in particular. She wonders if it would be right to prompt him, but she has no idea what to even say. When his gaze meets hers again, he looks so… lost.

“The only thing this really tells me,” he lifts the journal, shaking it once, “is how little I knew him. I know next to nothing about him. My own father. Alois knows more than I ever will.” 

“Plenty of parents are distant with their children,” she offers, knowing it’s not much of a comfort. 

He’s silent for a long time, and she wonders why he even asked her to stay. She’s obviously not saying what he needs to hear, doing what he needs her to do. 

“I don’t think it was his fault.” 

Those words stand on their own for the longest time, and Dorothea has the sense to just let them exist. 

“There’s something… wrong with me, Thea.” The joy she feels at him using that nickname again is sharply undercut by what he says. She instantly feels defensive, as if in speaking so ill of himself, he’s done the same to her. “I don’t… feel what normal people feel. He writes so many times about how he just couldn’t connect with me because I never smiled, never laughed, never cried.” 

“I’ve seen you do all of those things here,” she says, a wealth of emotion constricting her throat. 

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s just because I spend so much time around all of you,” he muses aloud. “If I just pick it up by association.” 

“I don’t believe that’s true for a second,” she tells him firmly, “and I think I know how to prove it.” 

She didn’t plan to show him this until it was perfect, but finally she feels as if there’s something she can do for him. Something that might help him feel just a little better. She pulls the composition out, smooths the wrinkles from the paper over the arm of the chair.

“I… wanted to do something. I didn’t get to know him very well, but there are plenty of people here who did. So… I talked to each of them. I heard so many nice things about your father,” she says with a shy smile, not looking at him, “and I pulled them together into a song. I thought I could sing it at the eulogy.” 

“That’s…” The word comes out in a rough exhale, and she finally looks up to see his eyes fixed on her. Looking at her not as if he sees through her, but as if he sees something more to her.

“I haven’t practiced it yet. It probably needs work still, but… I’d like to sing it for you? If that’s all right.” 

He stares at her for a long moment, silent. Dorothea nearly folds under the intensity of his gaze, but finally he nods. She draws in a breath, clears her throat, hums a few bars in preparation… and then she sings. 

It’s not the best she’s ever sung. At first she tries too hard, but after the first verse, she relaxes and just sings from the heart. Many times when she sings, she feels like she’s on stage again, in front of an adoring audience. She doesn’t feel that here. This is something softer. More intimate. She's singing for him because she wants to make him feel something, bring him some measure of closure. 

And… it seems to work. Better than she intended. She doesn’t just see the glimmer of tears previously shed, but actual tears tracing down his cheeks. She wants to brush them away with her hands or her lips, but she wisely remains seated.

“I think I’ve proven my point,” she says with a smile, the slightest, teasing lilt to her voice.

He smiles back, slowly shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone more remarkable than you.” 

She falters, her mind not seeming to recall how words are formed. Heat rises swiftly to her cheeks and she looks up at him through her lashes. “Now you’re going to make me cry.” It’s not far from the truth. There’s a catch in her voice. 

“Thank you, Dorothea,” he says softly. “It’s beautiful.” 

“It felt like the least I could do,” she confesses, meeting his eyes again. They still glimmer slightly with wetness. “For the record, I also happen to give excellent hugs, should that be something you’re interested in.” 

Outside of this room, outside of this moment, it might have been read as flirtatious. But he understands her meaning here. Well enough that he actually stands, smiling at her. Dorothea stands, too, and there’s no panic in her heart as she moves to embrace him. He’s a friend who’s hurting. She can separate her own feelings long enough to just be what he needs her to be. She hugs him tightly, rests her cheek against his shoulder, and tries to impart as much warmth as she possibly can.

Perhaps that’s why, when she draws back, she frames his face with her hands. Her thumbs stroke his cheeks, soft and warm. This time, she doesn’t shy away from his gaze. “Please be careful, Byleth. I don’t think I could bear it, if anything were to happen to you.” 

She intends to pull away, to leave him to his grief. But she’s caught in the notion that her heart would shatter into a million irrecoverable pieces if she lost him. As much as she knows this monastery is training them for real conflict, the stakes have never felt real before now. 

It’s something that could drive her into a fit of emotion, if she allows it. But fortunately--damningly--she’s caught in his eyes again, too. He’s looking at her as if she’s… precious. And when his hands come up to lightly cover hers, she once more forgets how to breathe.

Then the room begins to spin. It must, because she swears he steps closer to her. She feels the brush of his robes as they sway with his movement, feels the warmth of his body so near to hers. He comes closer still, and she knows the answer to her question as his breath softly caresses her lips. Her lashes brush her cheeks, her eyes closing, trusting. She sways closer to him, her knees feeling weak.

“Professor, I-- Oh!” Dorothea jerks backward at the sound of Manuela’s voice, her face aflame. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to _interrupt_.” 

She says it in her usual teasing way, implying something she doesn’t need to imply. Because for once, she’s right. She _did_ interrupt. Even as her heart beats wildly, her breath coming in quick bursts, Dorothea knows he would have kissed her had Manuela not shown up. And she would have kissed him back. Gladly. 

Dorothea lifts a hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath. “I should be going, anyway. I’m glad you liked the song, Professor.” 

She makes it almost to the end of the hall, not bothering to slow her flight. It’s Manuela who impedes her wish, yet again, her voice carrying through the quiet building.

“Dorothea.” 

She draws in a sharp, heavy breath, but stops just shy of the stairs. She doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. She just wants this moment--this _almost_\--to be hers and hers alone. Sliding the mask back in place, she turns to greet Manuela with a bright--and utterly fake--smile.

“You have the most dreadful timing, you know. I thought you of all people would understand my plight. Honestly.” 

As if she’s schemed to get to this moment. The very thought makes her queasy. In so few words, she’s stripped away all of the tenderness, all of the vulnerability and turned it into some game. 

Usually, Manuela doesn’t question this. She does the same thing in almost every interaction. But the look of pity in the older woman’s eyes tells her she doesn’t buy Dorothea’s disguise. 

“Be careful, dear. The highs may seem worth it now, but losing your heart to a man like that… it’s going to be devastating when it all comes crashing down.” There’s so much pain in the woman’s voice that even if Dorothea didn’t know her well, she would know she speaks from experience. 

She doesn’t say anything else. Dorothea can’t even look at her, and so Manuela returns to the Captain’s office. Once she’s out of earshot, she speaks a truth she’s known for some time now.

“It’s too late for that.” 

Her heart--protected as its been, shrouded in so much stage dressing--now rests soundly with him.


	5. Rumor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought it was only going to be two more chapters before the timeskip, but then I started obsessing over the Dorothea/Linhardt support chain and wanted to alter it a bit, so that Lin can be the mildly-interested-but-also-maybe-dozing-right-now bi best friend we all need.

Even if she was inclined to ignore Manuela’s advice--which she is--Dorothea isn’t given the chance to act any further on her feelings.

She spends the next few days after that _almost_ she and Byleth shared in an indescribable daze that’s quite possibly the best feeling she’s ever known… and the worst. It’s as if she exists only in the clouds, the warmth of the sun able to reach her more fully from here. But existing so high up doesn’t give many opportunities for her feet to touch the ground, and her training suffers for it. 

Byleth comments on it once, after a sparring session in which she easily allowed him to knock the blade from her hand. It takes all of her credibility as an actress not to tell him right there, in front of the others, just why she’s so distracted. Not that she needs to. The look he gives her tells her he knows… and maybe he’s having a difficult time, too.

Bernie goes up to ask him a question at one point and Dorothea can’t help but notice that it takes her several tries to pull him from his thoughts. While she knows he’s probably thinking about the looming mission, she can’t help believing that maybe--just maybe--he’s thinking about her.

She wants desperately to talk with someone about it all, but she can’t put him in such a position. Using vague terms seems childish, though she does at one point try that approach with Ingrid. Who, unsurprisingly, tunes much of it out and offers no helpful advice whatsoever. Sighing, Dorothea heads toward the choir room, hoping to at least distract herself with song. As she crosses the bridge, though, the conversation of two guards--who either possess no tact whatsoever, or don’t realize how unsubtle they are--catches her ear.

“--wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, if I were the professor, I’d take her up on the offer.” 

“It’s kinda pathetic, if you ask me. I heard she slept with a noble to even get _into_ the academy. I guess it makes sense that she’d let the professor bend her over his desk for a passing grade.” 

Dorothea’s skin crawls with a cold, clammy sensation. Her gut twists and she’s torn between confronting the two of them to clear Byleth’s name, and fleeing as fast as she can. She’s well aware of the gossip. For the most part, she shakes it off. Her goals at the monastery are no secret, and it’s easy to see how people would assume the worst. 

It still hurts, though. It still makes her feel exposed, as if everyone here just sees her as some useless trollop. Sometimes she concedes she’s brought it on herself, other times she feels such anger about it and knows her actions aren’t to blame for the fact that some people are just terrible. 

But the gossips have never assigned other names to the rumors before. Even if they had, she can’t confess to care much if some entitled lord who crossed a line gets his name dragged through the mud. 

There’s no reality in which Byleth deserves this, though, and for the first time Dorothea feels not just embarrassment, but a deep sense of shame over her actions. Knowing he sees her as something more than just a student has filled her with so much joy and hope for the future. But what if he didn’t come by those feelings on his own? What if she’s pushed him into it, worn him down with all her flirtatious remarks? 

That thought bothers her more than anything the guards could possibly say, but she’s not above being petty. As she passes by, she looks right at them and smiles. “Hello, boys.” 

They stumble into a more alert position, and she can see the hint of an embarrassed blush on one’s face. Dorothea doesn’t linger. She moves at a steady pace across the bridge, until that pace becomes a hurried walk, then what’s nearly a run. She’s out of breath by the time she makes it inside, her lungs burning, and not because of the exertion.

She tries so hard not to cry. She refuses to do it for men like those two guards. They don’t deserve her tears, her time, or anything else. But… what if she is what they say she is, and nothing more? 

“Dorothea? Are you all right?” 

Lin’s soft voice breaks her out of her spiral of self-loathing. It’s a good thing, too. This one seems to be moving at a rapid pace. Faster than she’s ever experienced before. She doesn’t even know how she got to the library, why she ducked into this room and not the choir room, but it doesn’t matter.

“Oh, Lin. I didn’t disturb your nap, did I?” She flashes him a teasing grin, her hand poised above her chest as she tries to catch her breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” 

That’s… not what she intended to say. She realizes it only after the words have already left her mouth. She planned to tell him that yes, of course she was fine. Perhaps make some silly comment to distract or exasperate him, then be on her way. 

“I find that very hard to believe, considering your current state.” He lifts his hand to cup his chin, analyzing her without even the slightest sense of shame. 

“What does it matter? You’re not exactly the type to care very much about the problems of others,” she snaps, instantly regretting the words as soon as they leave her mouth. One stupid rumor, and she’s turned into something she hates. “I’m sorry. That was cruel of me.” 

“But not untrue,” he says, as unflappable as ever. “I try not to concern myself with others’ problems. It’s exhausting, after all.” 

It takes her a moment to realize he’s making a joke, and a smile flickers across her lips. “Living with them is pretty exhausting, too.” 

“Mm.” He nods in surprisingly solemn understanding, then gestures to a nearby chair. “Why don’t you have a seat, catch your breath. And if you just so happen to talk, well, I can’t stop you. I might even doze. It’ll be just like talking to the cats.” 

“Talking to the cats, huh?” 

That doesn’t sound like the worst idea, and she does need _someone_ to talk to. For all his strangeness, Lin is a good guy. He’s not one for gossip, either. Maybe she can trust him.

She takes a seat, noticing he’s somehow managed to sneak a kettle of tea in with him. The monks would have a fit if she so much as breathed the wrong way on one of the books, but it doesn’t surprise her that Lin has special privileges. 

“Tea? I confess my brewing skills aren’t as advanced as the professor’s, but it’s tolerable.” 

At the merest mention of him, Dorothea loses her composure. Heat rises to her cheeks and she looks away for just a moment before shoring up her defenses. Lin's gaze is focused on her when she looks back at him, but she just smiles. “Tea would be lovely.” 

He pours in silence, and Dorothea doesn’t rush to fill it with conversation. She sips the tea--a little bitter for her tastes--and considers where to start, or if she even should. Lin doesn’t prompt her. He has a book open now and appears to be paying no attention to her whatsoever. 

_Just like talking to the cats. Alright, Dory. You can do this._

“Have you ever been the subject of a rumor, Lin?” 

He doesn’t even look up from his book to answer. “I’m sure I have, but I can’t say I’ve noticed.” 

_Must be nice…_

“I’ve been dealing with them my entire life. Competition was fierce in the opera, and you know how divas can be. Well, I suppose you don’t,” she mutters the last under her breath. “When I came to the monastery, I was hoping it would be a new start, but… I suppose the things I set out to do here are excellent fuel for gossip.” 

“That’s curious. We all have our reasons for being here. I can’t imagine why yours should be significant to anyone other than the person you intend to marry.” 

When he first speaks, she thinks he might not know. She’s made no secret of it. In fact, but Lin has never struck her as someone who pays attention to information that doesn’t immediately interest him. By the end, though, she’s momentarily stunned into silence.

“If only everyone else agreed with you,” she says softly, looking down at her cup. “Anyway, the rumors…” _Don’t bother me_. She can’t even bring herself to tell that lie. “I’m used to them, I guess. But now they involve someone else, and…” 

“The professor.” 

Her head jerks up and she stares across the table at him, eyes wide. “What? I didn’t…” He _still_ isn’t looking at her. It’s the only reason she’s able to compose herself. “I never imagined you as someone who listens to gossip.” 

“I don’t,” he says dismissively. “But the guards here are very loud. And very stupid sometimes.” To her surprise, Lin closes his book and meets her startled gaze. “Why would it bother you? If there’s no truth to it…” 

She doesn’t know what face she makes, but it’s apparently more conspicuous than she hoped. Either that or Lin is far more perceptive than she’s ever given him credit for.

“Ah, I see.” He leisurely sips his tea as Dorothea waits for this entire conversation to unravel.

And since she apparently already has one foot in the fire, she makes the split decision to submerge herself completely. “You can’t say anything, Lin. Promise me. If word of this reaches Seteth, Byl--the professor won’t hear the end of it.” 

“I don’t know what kinds of conversations you imagine me having with Seteth, but I assure you, I have no interest in telling him about your love life, Dorothea. Him or anyone, really.” 

A deep blush colors her cheeks. No, she supposes he wouldn’t. How self-centered of her to think he’d even care, let alone squawk about it to everyone else. “Right. Okay. Um… thanks.” 

She retreats to the relative safety of the tepid tea, but finds herself growing more and more agitated with every passing moment. So wound up by the silence that she finally breaks.

“Are you really not going to ask me about this?” 

Lin blinks owlishly at her. “Would you like me to ask?” 

“No, I…” Dorothea lets out a sound of frustration. “...Maybe.” 

Byleth is the one she goes to, she realizes. He’s the one she talks to when she needs someone who won’t judge her; someone who may even offer advice. But he can’t advise her on this, and she can’t even imagine having this disaster of a conversation with him.

“What would you like me to ask, then?” He rests one wrist over the other, assuming the practiced poise of the nobility. 

“Lin.” She stares flatly at him. “That genuinely defeats the purpose.”

“Why don’t we look at it from another angle. What exactly is troubling you? Is it just the thought of our professor being reprimanded? Because I’m fairly sure he receives criticism from Seteth on a regular basis.” 

“It’s not just that, I…” 

Is she _really_ going to do this? Is she actually going to confess these things to him? 

_It’s either say it to Lin now, or blurt it out to Byleth later_, she reminds herself, and that makes the choice an easy one.

“Oh, alright,” she relents, as if he’s whittled her down, when at this point she’s positive Lin wouldn’t lose any sleep over not knowing. “I… I care about him. Not just as someone who’s taught me so much, but as a person who means the world to me.” 

Everything about her softens as she says it. A small smile blooms on her lips and warmth fills her heart. If only all of it could feel so very pleasant and comforting.

“I… think he cares about me, too. Probably not as much as I do for him,” she can’t imagine him ever feeling so strongly for someone like her, “but I don’t think he sees me as just a student.” 

“Well that’s obvious,” Lin says matter-of-factly. 

She stares at him, whatever she was about to say swept away by his words. Her heart flutters at the thought that he’s shown some outward signs of that care, just as she knows she has. But… maybe Lin doesn’t mean it that way. Maybe he means it in the same way the guards do. She knows it isn’t true, but her heart hardens immediately and fury leaps forth in her voice.

“This is exactly what I mean. I know I’m not subtle, I know I've flirted with him, I know everyone apparently thinks I’ve seduced him, but--” 

“Dorothea, calm down.” 

Her jaw sets stubbornly and she glares at him. But the expression seems to have no effect whatsoever, and slowly Dorothea realizes she’s just having a tantrum for no reason. Jumping to conclusions because her nerves are so overwrought. 

“I… should just go,” she says, shame washing over her. “I’m not acting like myself right now, and you don’t need to be caught up in my drama.” 

“This has been a more recent development,” Lin muses, completely ignoring what she’s said. “You flirted with him in the past, yes. Aggressively so. But he didn’t start looking at you in a certain way until that eased off.” 

“In… in what way?” she stammers, losing her breath.

She knows the answer, though. The same way he looked at her at the ball. The same way he looked at her in the Captain’s office. Like she’s something to cherish; someone who matters. 

“Even if you had seduced him, what does it matter?” he continues, not answering her question. “That’s between the two of you, and the only opinions that signify are yours and his. If there’s something you want to know, just ask him.”

_Just ask him_. He makes it sound so simple, as if her heart isn’t some fragile thing made of cobbled-together shards of glass. But… he’s right. The only reason the rumors are distressing is because she hasn’t asked him what she needs to ask. What she’s needed to ask for months now. 

_Could you ever love someone like me?_

She’s so afraid of the answer, of how thoroughly it could crush her, but what if it’s not a rejection? What if all of this is leading to something beautiful; something magical? Isn’t that worth the risk? 

Dorothea stands slowly, her whole body seeming to vibrate with the possibilities as her mind settles on a decision. She walks to the other side of the table and gently wraps her arms around Linhardt’s shoulders from behind. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, solemnly. “You’re a good friend, Lin.” 

He shrugs a bit, but gives her arm a pat. “Of course. Now, if you have what you need…” 

She laughs at that, a joyous sound. “Yes, I’ll leave you to your afternoon nap.” 

Her steps are lighter as she leaves the library. Her thoughts soar high into the clouds, but this time, her feet are still grounded, padding along the flagstone. Carrying her toward a chance she’s eager to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up. Everything's going to hell after this. Fluff will prevail in the end, but for now... onward to war.


	6. Light

She never gets the chance to ask her question, to follow that spark of optimism, because Jeralt’s killer has been found.

Everyone knows it’s a trap, but what choice do they have? Refusing to confront her means losing more people--potentially even losing Byleth, which she can’t allow to happen. So she buckles down, turning her cavalcade of emotions into a source of focus for once. She even discusses tactics with Edie, something that surprises the future emperor. 

“I didn’t think you had any interest in battle tactics, Dorothea,” Edelgard comments as they stand over a map of the region. “Had I known, I would have recruited you to the cause months ago.” 

She isn’t going to admit her interest is entirely personal, so instead she says, “Aren’t you always telling us to involve ourselves in all aspects of our time here? I’m just taking your advice, Edie. You know, trying to become a more well-rounded student.” 

She says it airily, as if this is just another practice battle between the three houses. No consequences. Just for fun. She knows it isn’t, but she doesn’t want Edelgard of all people to see how invested she is in this. 

“I fear this has already progressed well beyond the realms of what a mere student can handle,” Edie warns. 

Dorothea is becoming more and more aware of that fact. Ever since Jeralt’s death, things at the monastery have felt far more dire, the consequences very, very real. She says nothing, though, and simply lets Edie instruct her on efficient flanking maneuvers. 

Byleth is tense for the entire week leading up to the mission. She wishes she could comfort him somehow, even sit with him when he’s obviously lost in thought. Take his hand, let him know she’s there. But he’s hell-bent on training, spending his free time sparring with Catherine or Alois. He needs peace of mind she can’t give him, and so she just makes certain she’s as prepared for the coming battle as she can possibly be.

When the day finally arrives and they make their way to the Sealed Forest, Dorothea feels her resolve falter. There’s something ominous about it, something so foreboding that for a moment, she’s paralyzed with the fear of all that could come to pass. But Byleth leads them to advance on Monica--Kronya--and she steels herself and her troops. 

Things progress swiftly. They overwhelm the enemy, approaching from all sides. Dorothea knows she isn’t much of a front line fighter, so she lends her support to Byleth, Ferdinand, and Caspar as they press forward. Edie’s wyvern screeches as she flanks one side while Petra approaches from the other on her pegasus, and it doesn’t take long before they have the true evil surrounded. 

Dorothea feels vindicated watching Byleth approach his father’s murderer, as if this vengeance is hers to take alongside him. She’s not one for retribution and how quickly it can escalate, but in this case, it’s well deserved. 

Only… Byleth never gets the chance. Solon takes the initiative, suddenly appearing only to kill Kronya in the most gruesome manner imaginable. All Dorothea can do is watch, her skin crawling, hair standing on end. Her fingers close more tightly around the hilt of her blade, but she can feel her hand trembling. 

“On your order, my teacher,” Edie says resolutely. 

But something is amiss. Black flame licks upward from the corners of the stone floor Byleth stands on. He starts to react, teeth gritted, body poised for motion. All the breath leaves Dorothea’s lungs and she can’t even call out as the black void of fire and thick purple smoke burst upward to consume him.

“Professor!” Ferdinand speaks for her, jabbing his heel into his horse’s flank. He charges the wall of flames, but the horse rears just shy of it, nearly throwing him from the saddle. 

She wants to do something, find some kind of magic that will cut through it, leap past the flames herself, damn the consequences… but she can’t. She’s absolutely paralyzed, staring useless and wide-eyed at the scene before her. A blaze no one could survive, a spell designed to kill. 

Or banish.

Because when the smoke clears, only Solon is there. Byleth is nowhere to be found. She doesn’t have to search. Somehow she _knows_. And she’s studied enough dark magic to understand that he’s someplace she can’t follow. 

“Where is he?!” she finally finds her voice, speaking in a fierce, demanding growl that cuts off even Edelgard. 

“Somewhere you will never reach,” Solon says, his lips drawing back in a sneer. “Bound for an eternity spent wandering a void of nothingness, never to return to this world.” 

“You’re lying,” Dorothea almost pleads, willing it to be so. 

But she knows he isn’t. Deep down, she knows Byleth is gone. Locked away someplace she can never reach. She’s failed him. They all have. 

She hears Caspar and Flayn exchange words with Solon, hears the icy threat in Edelgard’s murderous tone, but her ears are ringing so much she can’t make out the words. 

A cold clarity grips her, though, and suddenly she sees the goal before her. Cut down Solon. Strike him from this plane so that he can’t hurt anyone ever again. It’s either that or lay down and die, broken and defeated, crumpled under the weight of her fractured heart.

She knows which path Byleth would wish for her, and that’s the one she chooses. As Solon’s hands begin to glow with unnatural magic, Dorothea extends her sword at an angle from her body, sparks conducting along the metal, dancing the length of the blade. She whips it forward with a fierce yell and an arc of lightning joins the assault as the rest of the Eagles surge forth, knowing what they must do.

Were he a regular opponent, this would be no contest. But Solon wields the power of something that has long slumbered. He deflects the front line charge, disappearing and reappearing in a cloud of smoke. Somehow, Dorothea’s reactions are lightning quick as she uses her free hand to call magic from the space around herself. 

She fights with everything in her, harder than she ever has before, swept up in bitter rage and sorrow. 

Then she sees it, out of the corner of her eye. It’s impossible to miss, this bright, blinding light that slices through the sky. It explodes outward and Dorothea has no choice but to shield her eyes and pray she’ll be able to open them again. 

“No… No!” Solon practically howls his disbelief. “Impossible!” 

Dorothea opens her eyes, and while she’s never been one for faith, in this moment, she could allow herself to believe. Because there stands Byleth. Unharmed. Brimming with magical energy. His hair shocked to a lighter green, his eyes blazing. 

He runs, building momentum, the Sword of the Creator held high above his head as he takes off in a flying leap. He thrusts the relic downward and it slices through flesh and bone with ease, cleanly releasing from the other side as Byleth lands, panting. Solon slumps, what’s left of his corporeal form sliding to the ground before it dissipates into black smoke. 

Dorothea barely notices. Her gaze is fixed only on Byleth, her heart hammering in her chest, relief flooding her body, the surge of adrenaline leaving her. “You’re alive,” she breathes, her voice shaking.

His gaze meets hers, and there’s something distant in his eyes. Something that wasn’t there before. But when he nods--when the smallest twitch of a smile tugs at his lips--she can’t help but feel as if they’ve escaped an unimaginable fate.

***

As they make their way back to the monastery, Dorothea’s gratitude turns into a deeply unsettling sense of what might have been. Byleth was nearly lost to time and space. Not just killed, but snuffed out like a candle suddenly brought to heel by a strong wind. 

She knows something happened to him. His appearance makes that obvious enough, and the immediate interest Rhea takes in him only confirms it. As concerned as she knows she should be over the consequences, though, all Dorothea can think about is the “what if.” 

Before all of this, she’d intended to ask him a question. But that no longer seems as important as providing an answer. Maybe it’s not one he seeks, but it’s one she needs to give. Because if something happens in the future, she needs him to know. She needs him to understand just how much he matters. Not just to the church or his students, but to the people who care for him. To the people who love him. 

To her.

It almost feels selfish, because surely that’s not the most pressing concern right now. What does it matter that she now understands just what it would feel like to live in a world that doesn’t include him? What does it matter that she isn’t sure she can exist in such a state? That just losing him for a few minutes utterly destroyed her? 

_It matters more than anything._

For once, the voice she hears in her mind is firm, confident, and not in any way seeking to tear her down. It builds her up, tells her that there’s nothing frivolous about what she’s doing now. It tells her that it doesn’t matter who sees her rush through the dormitory building. It doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of the night and it’s in no way proper for her to knock on his door. None of that matters. 

The only thing that matters is telling him the truth of her heart, because she knows she might not get another chance.

“Byleth?” she doesn’t bother with formalities. She stopped seeing him in that light months ago. “Are you still awake?” 

It’s not that late, but after being fussed over by Rhea, then poked and prodded by Hanneman, there’s a fair chance he might be resting. She’s not sure what she’ll do if that’s the case, but thankfully she doesn’t have to find out. She hears movement beyond the door, then a click of the latch as he pulls it open.

“I thought you might come by. I guess you probably have questions about… everything that happened,” he says, gesturing vaguely to himself. 

She can tell this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation. He seems tired beyond belief. But he steps back, granting her space to come inside. Dorothea’s heart races as she steps into his room and closes the door behind her. She fidgets some, her hands wringing together before she answers.

“Actually, I…” She should care about that. It’s all anyone can talk about. But right now, it’s the last thing that matters. “This is going to sound strange and probably a little callous, but I’m not here to press you about what happened in… wherever you were. So long as you’re still you, the rest of it isn’t that important to me right now.” 

He gives her a silent nod, affirming that yes, he’s the same Byleth as ever. The one who speaks so very little and smiles so rarely. He does so now, though. Just a small one that strikes Dorothea as a bit awestruck, something his words reinforce. “It really isn’t, is it. That’s… a nice change of pace.” 

“You know me,” she says, her heart only partially invested in the fake flippancy, “always going against the grain.” 

“Then you’re here because…?” 

There’s something almost hopeful in his eyes. A different color now, and perhaps more expressive than before. Or perhaps that’s just what her heart wishes to see. To know that perhaps he’s been at the edge of something this entire time, too, and just waiting for her to make a move. 

She does so now, even as her heart hammers wildly. She steps close to him, close enough that she barely has to speak above a whisper to be heard. Looking up at him, she lets every bit of costuming fall to the side; lets every single vulnerability shine in her eyes. She knows he sees them, because his expression softens, and she sees those same things reflected in his own eyes. 

“Because I nearly lost you today.” Dorothea allows herself to accept the gravity of that statement before moving on. “Seeing you disappear like that, knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do about it… I was terrified.” She gives him a small smile. “I thought I told you to be careful.” 

“I’m sorry.” She lets him apologize, because it seems to ease a burden from him, as well. “When I saw Kronya, I just…” 

“I know.” There’s no hesitation this time when she lifts her hand to his cheek, and her heart flutters as he leans into the comforting gesture. “But having to confront the idea of you not being in my life anymore, I… I don’t know if I can imagine my world without you in it. I know it hasn’t even been a year, but in that time you’ve become so very dear to me. You’re the one person in the world I can be myself around. The one person who tells me I have more to offer than my looks. There’s so much I admire in you, but that ability to see what’s truly there… that’s what I admire most.” 

And what ultimately caused her to fall so hard, so fast; what brought her to her knees, rendered her utterly helpless beneath the strength of her emotions. It scared her once, even as little as a few weeks ago. But there isn’t time to be scared now. It’s a waste, and while Lin might not have said as much specifically, she’s sure he’d agree that dancing around all of this is silly. 

“Anyone who bothers to look can see the things I see in you,” he says softly. “I’m not special.” 

Dorothea laughs, warmth rising to her cheeks. Her heart twists in the most agonizing, wonderful way, and she has to avert her gaze. “See, that’s what I mean. You say these things like they’re obvious, like you’re simply stating a fact, but the rest of the world doesn’t see it that way.” She looks up at him again, a brilliant smile gracing her features. “You _are_ special, Byleth. Not because of your crest or whatever happened to you in the Sealed Forest, but because of who you are. Because of how much you care. And if you won’t accept that, then I need you to know that you’re special _to me_. You’re… you’re precious to me. I…”

The words are there. They’ve lived in her heart for months now, begging to be released. There’s no way he could possibly misunderstand--she’s said everything _but_ that. And yet those old fears hook deep into Dorothea’s conscious mind. The doubts rise like an ominous tide, threatening to swallow her nerve, taking those words with them.

She fights back not with the guise of over-confidence and flirtation this time, but with honest action. He was nearly lost forever, and she’s not leaving this room until he understands what he means to her. It could ruin her. This could be the moment where he breaks her heart, just like Manuela warned. But she has to take a chance.

Leaning up, Dorothea doesn’t hesitate. Not any longer. She doesn’t settle for simply brushing her lips against his. That’s not going to cut it now, because if she can’t speak the words, she has to communicate them some other way. 

So she fully commits, pressing her lips to his, the weight of everything she feels behind that kiss. At first, he doesn’t respond. His lips are cool against hers, his body held rigid. Doubt begins to gain a stronger foothold, dread washing over her. But just as she’s about to pull away, Byleth responds in a way she would never have imagined, not even in her wildest dreams. 

He’s always been so reserved, and up until now, she hasn’t let herself believe it’s because he’s held anything back. In this moment, though, she could believe that’s exactly it, because he responds with such abandon that it takes her breath away. His mouth presses firmly, fully to hers, his hands move to her back, clutching her, pulling her close as if he’s afraid he might lose her. There’s so much pent up emotion, as if it’s been there for years and is only now finding an outlet. 

And Dorothea answers it eagerly; greedily, even. Her arms slide around his neck and she uses her grip as leverage to bring herself flush against him, just to feel as much of his warmth as she can. It’s a reminder that he’s here, he’s alive, and he… isn’t rejecting her, somehow. The thought makes her almost want to sob with joy. Instead, she just redirects all of it into the kiss, telling him what’s in her heart without saying a word. 

That beautiful, perfect moment seems to last for an eternity, and still it’s not long enough. She feels the loss of him the instant he breaks the kiss, despite the fact that she desperately needs to take a breath. His hands rest at her waist, his fingers still bunched in the fabric. She’s never been held like this before, so desperately, and that same sense of desperation is matched in his eyes. 

“Thea, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

She might think he intends to ascribe words to what they both just expressed, but that’s not what she reads in his eyes. There’s worry there, uncertainty, and why would he possibly be uncertain about that? If nothing else happens tonight, Dorothea is positive neither of them will come away from this wondering just where they stand with each other.

“If you’re going to critique my form, I’d much rather a demonstration,” she teases. 

And this time it isn’t an attempt to distract or conceal. She just feels… light. Playful. Safe in her ability to say those things.

He doesn’t respond quite as she hopes. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something’s bothering him, and Dorothea’s expression sobers considerably. “What is it?” 

He leads her to sit on the edge of the bed, and she tries not to think about how much she wishes she was still kissing him right now. Running her hands through his silken hair, tracing down to his shoulders, over the planes of his chest…

“I know you said it doesn’t matter, but I need you to understand what happened to me. Why I’m like this now, and what it means.” That snaps her out of her reverie, cooling the rush of warmth that spread through her. “It’s… going to sound crazy, but…” 

“Tell me,” she urges softly, taking his hands in hers. 

And… he does. He tells her everything, all of it coming out in a tangled rush, as if he’s needed to say these things for some time. At first, Dorothea has a hard time keeping up. Something awakened inside of him? _Someone_? And not just anyone, but a literal goddess? 

It’s impossible to believe. It sounds so outlandish that were anyone else telling her, she’d assume it was some delusional, self-created fiction. But Byleth seems to agonize over every detail, and even if he didn’t, she trusts him implicitly. It doesn’t matter how little faith she might have. What he’s telling her is the truth, simply because she knows he wouldn’t lie.

“So you… share a soul with the progenitor god Sothis. And now she’s a part of you, her powers have merged with yours, and you’ve become one person. That’s…” 

“I know,” he says, sounding somewhat pained. “I know it’s a lot. And I know it sounds unbelievable, but I needed you to hear it before anything else happens.” 

Before she falls any deeper for a man who… hosts a goddess. A man whose destiny is now something she can’t even begin to comprehend. A man who must have the wisdom of eons at his disposal. A man who isn’t a man at all, but some otherworldly being that far outshines anything she could ever hope to be.

“It’s a lot to process,” she admits, feeling as though she’s fallen from a great height, the wind knocked out of her. “Your thoughts and feelings… are they hers, too? Do they come from her?” 

“No,” he says reflexively. “At least… I don’t think so. She’s always felt what I do, but I don’t think she’s influenced me beyond giving me the capacity to feel those things in the first place. I’m… not sure I did before she woke up. I’m not sure I could.” 

Dorothea feels as though she’s been kicked in the chest, her heart stuttering, her lungs refusing to recover. She believes him. With everything in her, she believes that he feels it’s all his own, and the things he’s done are his choice. But what he believes and what’s true might not be one in the same. 

Then again, surely if the goddess had that much influence, she would push him toward something else. _Someone_ else. She’s nothing to a divine being. No one of consequence, when there are people of much greater importance and faith that could be by his side. He might care for her, but how could she ever be enough? She was only just beginning to come around to the idea that she might deserve him when she thought he was just a man. Now… 

“Thea…” 

She hadn’t even realized she’d stood, pulling away from him. Already she feels cold and alone, but perhaps she should get used to that feeling. 

“I’m sorry,” she manages. “I just… need some time to process all of this.” 

To come to terms with what it means for their future together. The bitter reality that there is no future. Not one that’s remotely fair to him and what he needs to achieve. 

He’s looking up at her as if she’s taken his still-beating heart into her hand and crushed it, and Dorothea’s never hated herself more. He doesn’t understand. He probably thinks he’s frightened her off, and perhaps he has. But not for the reasons he likely believes.

She leans down and frames his face with her hands before pressing her lips to his once more. It’s soft and painfully bittersweet--the parting kiss she can’t help indulging in. Judging from the look in his eyes when she pulls back, he knows it, as well. 

Gathering the tatters of her willpower, Dorothea leaves, knowing that if she stays a single moment longer, she’ll doom him to a life that’s far less than he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm sorry. I hate it, too. 
> 
> The next one will probably be short, covering the Flame Emperor "reveal" and leading into the Silver Snow route, then the battle at Garreg Mach pre-timeskip. After that, finally the post-timeskip chapter I've already written, then this ship can be slowly steered back toward its fluffy conclusion. 
> 
> Also I'm bumping this up to T now and it will probably get bumped higher later on, because I have no shame and I think there's a lot of value in writing out emotional scenes of intimacy.


	7. Tether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to write this, yet ANOTHER chapter pre-timeskip--and a Byleth POV chapter, no less--but here we are. If folks like this brief switch in POV, I may do another one or two later on. This fic will still predominantly be Dorothea's POV, but I think fleshing things out with a glimpse at the other side of this will only help. Let me know what you think!

He lets her go, even when everything in him desperately wants to stop her. 

Sothis commented on his growing attachment once. She’d been dismissive, even chastising him somewhat as she was subjected to his distracted thoughts when he should have complete focus. But over time, she’d come to understand it wasn’t lust or some superficial fascination that made Dorothea so prominent in his mind. Sothis felt what he did, and as his feelings for the former songstress grew, Byleth’s constant companion had no choice but to understand the depths of them. 

At least… to understand them as much as Byleth himself ever could. He’s never felt like this before. Not even close. His life has been a daze of pragmatism and necessity, with emotion never factoring in. He understands now that in many ways, Jeralt simply mirrored the vast expanse of nothingness he received from his son. But he’s also beginning to realize that it’s no coincidence his emotions began to awaken when Sothis did. 

It’s made everything so much more difficult, but so much more rewarding, too. Were he not able to feel, he wouldn’t care for his students as anything more than troops to train and send into battle. He wouldn’t be invested in their success, wouldn’t feel such agony every time they find themselves in danger, nor such sweeping pride when they manage to triumph against all odds. 

And Thea…

He thinks that perhaps Dorothea would have made him feel something even without Sothis’ presence. From the very beginning, he’s watched how she interacts with her friends, how she takes care of those around her, how she puts her heart so deeply into the things she does when she thinks no one else is watching. If anyone could have managed to reach him without the aid of divine intervention, he knows it’s her.

And he’s glad for it.

It wasn’t always that way. She’s his student, and when he first started to notice how dazzlingly her emerald   
eyes sparkle when her smile is genuine, he felt guilty. Ashamed. He was her mentor, her source of guidance. She’d made her interest clear, but it would have been wrong to take advantage. 

Then again, the Dorothea who’d flirted with him so aggressively wasn’t quite the Dorothea he knew now. Or rather, it was just part of her costume. A revealing stage gown, a painted mask. Beneath all of that, he suspected she was just as lost as Byleth himself. Lost, yet still so incredibly warm, like a beacon chasing away the morning’s thick fog. 

Even still, he’d resisted until he just couldn’t anymore. Each time her mask slipped, each time she showed him her true self, he became more and more invested. The dam had broken the night she sang that lovely song for him. A song she’d written for Jeralt, despite hardly knowing him. A song she’d truly written for Byleth. To comfort him. To ease his fractured heart.

He would have kissed her then, had they not been interrupted. Kissed her and not regretted it in the slightest. In fact, in the days and weeks that followed, he regretted that he hadn’t made a point to seek her out. As inconvenient as it would have been, as much as his responsibilities pulled him in different directions, he needed to know if all of this was just in his head. 

And now he does know. He knows what her lips taste like, how soft and pliant they are against his own. He knows the shape of her body, the way it feels to have her pressed against him, so very warm. He knows what it’s like to feel so much from a single action, and to express so much in return. 

It’s something he never would have imagined. His first kiss was… fine. It happened when he was sixteen, when he and Jeralt stopped at an inn for the night while traveling between jobs. The innkeeper’s daughter had taken an interest in him, and by the end of the night, she’d felt emboldened to kiss him. Physically, it was pleasant enough. But there was nothing else to it, and Byleth certainly hadn’t understood the fuss. In the moment he’d thought something was wrong with him; perhaps he wasn’t cut out for such things. 

Now he understands. Perhaps it is Sothis’ influence, but he truly doesn’t think so. When he kissed Dorothea, he felt… everything. Every emotion he’d thought himself incapable of feeling, each shining so brightly in his heart, like the light of a new dawn. It was perfect. Beautiful. Meant only for the two of them.

And then he’d ruined it. He couldn’t lie to her. She needed to know everything, needed to make her own decision about any future they might have together. 

_I suppose she’s made it now…_

His heart aches at the thought that this is it. This is all it will ever be. She’s awakened these feelings in him, these emotions he’s never laid claim to before, and now they’ll simply wither inside of him. They won’t be used as they should be, to cherish her and show her how very remarkable she is. 

Because of what he is. Because whatever she feels for him, she feels for Byleth. An ordinary man, not some… being who scarcely possessed emotions before the goddess dwelling inside of him opened her eyes. 

It makes him feel a bitterness he doesn’t like, doesn’t wish to feel. Yet it’s that bitterness that ultimately makes him realize he’s wrong. Of course he’s wrong. He knows Dorothea, better than anyone. She’s not put off by him, not questioning the veracity of what he feels. 

She’s afraid. Afraid that things have suddenly changed, or that they will change in the future. That what he is means they can never be together. And, knowing Dorothea, that she doesn’t deserve him.

All of that couldn’t be further from the truth. He needs her now more than ever. She’s been his constant, his emotional tether, grounding him in a world he couldn’t comprehend before he met her. He needs her warmth, her affection, her adamant insistence that nothing else matters. 

It’s the middle of the night, and propriety says he shouldn’t seek her out. But he doesn’t care about propriety. He needs her to understand that the most important thing in the world to him right now… is her. 

Byleth reaches for the door to his quarters, but he doesn't make it far. A figure stands before him. Not Dorothea, but Edelgard.

“I apologize for the hour, my teacher, but I have a favor to ask of you. I’m afraid it cannot wait.” 

He invites her inside, and when dawn breaks, Byleth finds himself astride his destrier, accompanying Edelgard into Empire territory. Because ultimately, there is some truth to Dorothea’s fears. Somehow he’s become a figure of great importance, to both the church and the Empire. 

But whenever they stop to rest the horses, and later when he’s given a room at the palace, he pens a letter to the woman who’s somehow captured a heart that never beats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I have a busy week coming up, so I doubt daily uploads will be realistic. But I'm going to keep writing, and I'll get the next chapter out to you as quickly as I can!


	8. Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that this is the Silver Snow route, and if you don't want to read the initial confrontation with Edelgard from that side, you may want to skip this angst-ridden chapter. That said, I know there are a lot of Edelgard fans reading this--I'm one of them. I tried to do it justice, to paint her cause as righteous, and certainly not to position the church as the "right" choice. I don't think there are any right choices, and I suppose this chapter is meant to examine the human cost. With a POV character like Dorothea, I feel like that's even more relevant, so I hope you can understand her thoughts here. 
> 
> I don't at any point intend to write Edelgard as "evil" or Rhea as "good" because neither of those things are true. I suspect this fic will actually deviate some from Silver Snow canon because of that. 
> 
> ANYWAY. Yeah, so much for me not getting a chapter out today, lol. As I've mentioned, the next is written, but I'm going to save it for tomorrow to give myself some breathing room. <3

Dorothea second-guesses her decision more times than she can count.

It keeps her awake at night, making her toss and turn. When she does manage sleep, her subconscious mind runs with it, preying upon dual images in her mind. Her fears of how much she’d hold him back--how much he’d resent her for it, and the inevitable parting that would shatter her in two. And the reality of Byleth’s expression when she… rejected him.

She. Rejected _him_. 

That kiss was everything she could have ever hoped for, and then some. She knows now that her feelings _are_ reciprocated, at least to some extent. There’s no faking something like that. She felt such an outpouring of warmth and affection from him, and yes, perhaps even love. 

Yet now she’s alone in her own room, not stealing precious moments wrapped in his arms. Her mind plays tricks on her, tells her she’s imagined all of this even when she knows that isn’t true. All in the pursuit of sparing herself the inevitable heartbreak. 

She has no idea what she’ll do if he confronts her. With dark circles under her eyes and tousled hair, Dorothea makes her way to the Black Eagles classroom only to find Seteth there instead.

“It’s very kind of you to grace us with your presence, Miss Arnault. I was just telling your fellow students that your professor has accompanied Edelgard to Enbarr. They will return at the end of the week, but for the time being--” 

Dorothea is as relieved as she is crestfallen by that news, and she tunes out the rest of Seteth’s explanation and much of his lecture. Not on purpose, but her mind seems incapable of focus, drifting toward Enbarr. It takes her all day to realize the uncomfortable feeling that prickles at the back of her mind is jealousy. 

Edie would be perfect for him. She isn’t frivolous in the same ways Dorothea is. She isn’t frivolous at all. She’s a highborn noble with an important crest, set to inherit a sizeable chunk of Fódlan. Her destiny encompasses far more than her classmates. It might be enough to match even Byleth’s. 

Jealousy is an awful look for Dorothea, though, and she instantly hates the way it makes her feel. She doesn’t want to envy her friend, especially when there’s no reason for it. So she deals with her feelings in the only way she can--through song and verse, the stack of papers in her room barely enough to contain it. By the time he returns at the end of the week, she’s… no closer to coming to terms with any of it.

And somehow, in the span of a few days, none of it matters. 

Their task to descend into the Holy Tomb should have been simple. She would have seen more of what Byleth is, what he can do, and perhaps even a glimpse of the… entity that merged with him. But that opportunity never comes to pass.

“Stop right there.” 

The voice that interrupts the ritual is commanding, and far too familiar. She turns to see Edie, Imperial soldiers flanking her. 

_What is she…?_

“This isn’t the way.” Byleth urges, and Dorothea’s eyes go wide.

What _happened_ in Enbarr?

“I’m sorry, my teacher,” Edie says, her voice burdened with sadness, but resolute all the same. “I cut this path, and now I must follow it.” 

She looks to the rest of them, and when Edelgard’s eyes rest on her own, Dorothea sees genuine pain in them, as if it’s killing her to make this decision. 

“My friends… I ask that all of you stay back. It is not my intention to fight you.” 

Dorothea believes that. She truly does. But the next words out of her mouth involve firm instruction for her soldiers to kill anyone who gets in the way as they collect the crest stones. It’s all so agonizingly surreal, and she can only look to Byleth for guidance.

She sees the struggle in his eyes, the same one that exists in her own heart. What can they possibly do? Helping Edelgard now would mean endorsing her obvious desire to dismantle the world by force, no matter the cost. But standing against her… 

The Imperial forces give them no time to decide. They rush in, hammers impacting sacred tombs in pursuit of the crest stones held within. 

“You mustn’t let them take the crest stones!” Rhea’s voice, normally so quiet and ethereal, booms across the chamber. “Drive out the enemy, make them pay, until every last one understands the wrath of the goddess.” 

Dorothea has no interest in a bitter feud between the Adrestian Empire and the Church of Fódlan. Her interest is personal, the stakes so high it’s almost paralyzing. But she recalls the last time she let fear overtake her, and she won’t let Byleth down like that again. Where he leads, she will follow, lending her blade and magic to his. 

“Keep Edelgard alive,” he calls out to them, the words choked by raw emotion. 

He’ll find a way to end this conflict without Edie’s blood being shed. He’s found that middle road before, showed compassion when Rhea has shown none. She fights by his side for that reason, she and her classmates, most of them forced to go against their own homeland. 

They press through the Imperial forces, retrieving the crest stones one by one, until only Edie is left. She waits for them, as if this confrontation was inevitable. Dorothea’s heart breaks with the thought that in Edelgard’s mind, it was.

“You don’t have to do this, Edie,” she urges, tears in her eyes. “Please.” 

Her friend gives her a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry. There is no other way.” When her gaze returns to Byleth, he’s come to stand before her. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword. “Professor… I will make no excuses. Thank you for all you’ve done for me. In truth... “ There’s a pregnant pause Dorothea can’t hope to understand. “No. Let’s leave it at that.” 

“I don’t want to fight you,” Byleth insists.

“Nor I you. But I cannot let you stand in the way of the future we all deserve.” 

Before he can say anything further, Edelgard draws her axe and cleaves it downward, intent on burying it in Byleth’s chest. Dorothea doesn’t react quickly enough and neither do the others, but the head of the axe slams against his shield, denting it inward. Byleth grits his teeth, forced back by the strength of the blow, but not going for the obvious counter. 

_The enemy will exploit your mercy, Dorothea. Never think that they won’t._

Edie’s words to her, so long ago. Said with a reassuring but firm hand on her shoulder, after she’d been unwilling to finish off a bandit who’d soiled himself as he awaited the end, helpless against Edelgard’s final blow. 

She remembers it now, and she acts on it because there’s no choice. Edelgard will abuse the mercy Byleth desperately wishes to show her. In mere seconds, he could be dead. So Dorothea extends a hand and blasts a force of wind directly at the Emperor, knowing she’s just sealed her own fate. If it means keeping him alive, she’d do it a thousand times over. 

Edie is pushed back, away from Byleth, though she still holds tightly to her axe. The spell gives the others time to act and Ferdinand jabs his spear down to tangle in her arms, the end of the weapon tucked against his armored body as he leverages his weight to wrench the axe from Edelgard’s hands. Caspar and Petra close in. Bernie’s aim is shaky as she levels a nocked arrow. They all wait, afraid and unwilling to act as Byleth approaches, the Sword of the Creator glowing faintly. 

She wishes this could just be a matter between them, but Rhea is quick to cast her judgment. Dorothea barely hears her, her own hands shaking as badly as Bernie’s as magic sparks between her fingertips. 

“So. It is my teacher who stands in my way,” Edie says, her voice hardened. “I always knew it would come to this.” 

“Edelgard…” 

“Professor. You know what you must do.” Rhea’s voice is cold. Terrifying. “Kill Edelgard at once.” 

Dorothea’s breath catches in her throat as Byleth begins to raise his sword. His eyes are squeezed shut, so much pain in his features as he prepares to do what the rest of them cannot. She doesn’t know what she’d choose in his stead; doesn’t want to even think about it. Edelgard would have killed them. Their blood would have painted the path to her revolution. But she’s still… Edie. 

Byleth brings the blade down, but it never connects. Dorothea’s skin tingles when a flash of dark magic erupts before them, time slowing to a crawl as Hubert grabs Edelgard with one arm and extends the other, leveling a sphere of shadow energy right at Byleth. There’s no time to react, and the orb slams into him, sending him sprawling backward, the smell of singed clothing and flesh burning her nostrils. 

It doesn’t matter that they get away. Dorothea doesn’t care about that. All that she cares about is lying on the ground, barely breathing, his face wracked with pain.

“Lin!” she calls desperately, tears streaming down her face as she drops to her knees beside him. “Help me!” 

Learning white magic has been an arduous process full of failure and frustration. Even now, she’s not sure she even possesses enough faith to do what she needs to do. As her hands hover over the wound, all she can hope is that it isn’t her faith in the goddess that matters, but her faith in the man who’s merged with her.

*** 

Byleth survives, the emotional wounds rending far deeper than the physical ever could. But there’s no time for any of them to come to terms with what’s happened. They’re at war. The enemy--made up of their former friends and allies--is at their door, marching toward Garreg Mach. 

The Knights of Seiros muster such a force that Dorothea is just another face in the crowd. With Byleth commanding troops closer to the monastery, she decides to make herself useful in a way she knows few others will consider. She presses into the village with Alois, hoping to evacuate as many people as possible. 

The soldiers are indiscriminate in their violence as they tear through the village. There are so many of them that they trample some of the villagers, including a child Dorothea isn’t fast enough to save. Alois has to pull her away from the troops, a tortured cry of anger and anguish ripping from her throat, before she rushes headlong into them. 

But suddenly she understands the cost of Edelgard’s war. It was always this way. The Emperor made no attempt to hide it. She’s always said there’s no price she wouldn’t pay for a better world, but all Dorothea can see is how many commoners will die for a war they don’t want and didn’t ask for. A war Edelgard says she’s fighting for all--especially those without crests--but one that will be paid for with the blood of the smallfolk, far more than the nobility. 

Maybe Edelgard is right. Maybe true freedom can’t come without great sacrifice. But these lives aren’t hers to play with, and Dorothea can’t forgive her for that. 

But then, it might not matter whether she forgives her or not. Despite the size of Garreg Mach’s army, despite Byleth’s leadership and the participation of the other houses, the Imperial army outnumber them ten to one. They’re forced to fall back, further and further, until she’s near enough to hear Byleth shouting commands to his troops. 

She needs to be by his side, needs to face whatever’s to come with him, but she isn’t given that luxury. The crowd of soldiers is too thick, the battle too dangerous. At one point, she catches sight of him on the ridge--along with a flash of shimmering white out of the corner of her vision--before the Empire makes its final push.

Separated from him by a crimson-soaked field, her own blood adding to the mix, Dorothea can only watch as a blast of dark energy breaks over the din of battle. It shoots toward him, throwing him back and off the edge of a cliff, into a crumbling chasm below. 

***

They search for months, no one more than Dorothea. With every day that passes, every day he isn’t found, her heart continues to fracture until it feels like there’s nothing left to give. But she keeps giving anyway, arguing with her last breath to keep the search parties going, even if they only consist of her and one of the other Eagles on most days. 

After three months, the searches fall off to once a week, then once a month, until finally Dorothea can’t stand to do it anymore. By the time she’s forced to confront what her friends have tried to help her accept, there’s nothing left of her shattered heart. 

Slowly--so very slowly--Dorothea begins to pick up the pieces. She seeks purpose because she knows she can’t just allow herself to languish in her grief. And perhaps because some small, defiant part of her still hopes he might be out there somewhere. 

Even if everything that’s real and rational tells her otherwise.


	9. Reunion

She stays close to the monastery. 

For five years, she moves between nearby villages, helping those in need. He would’ve wanted it that way, and she wants it, too. It feels good to be useful, especially in those times when she feels so… helpless. 

She always feels that way when she thinks of him. She felt that way before, too, but for an entirely different reason. Once, she was helpless against his piercing gaze; his ability to see through the mask she wore. Then she was helpless against the ever-present yearning of her own heart, still beating the same mournful tune after all these years. When she thinks of him now, she is stricken by how little she was able to do. All her time at the monastery, she should have worried less about securing a husband and more about protecting what truly mattered to her.

And now…

She still hasn’t mourned him. She refuses to do it. You only mourn those who are dead, and in her soul she knows he can’t be dead. Surely her own heart would stop beating if that were the case--at least, that’s what always happens in the most tragic operas. But Dorothea’s had more than enough tragedy, so she turns her thoughts toward a brighter future. A future where the war is over. Where she can live a peaceful existence; an existence that warrants the song she’s snuffed from her heart. An existence where he’s still alive. Where maybe, after all this time…

So many wasted words, so much time spent hiding behind her own insecurities. She should have told him. That night at the Goddess Tower, in the Captain’s office, in his quarters after she feared she’d lost him the first time. So many opportunities to tell him what was in her heart. Five years ago, she’d thought it enough to simply show him, only to be frightened away by the prospect that things might not work out as she’d hoped. 

Really, she’d been afraid of rejection. Afraid of him wising up and realizing she was so far beneath him that they scarcely deserved to share the same existence. She should have said something, even if he rejected her feelings. Rejected her. 

Now she may never know the answer to the question she had so many years ago. But she hopes for that slim chance. She hopes for it with everything inside of her. She even prays for it sometimes, despite never having had much of a relationship with the goddess before. And that is why she’s stayed so close to the monastery. That is why she readies herself to return to Garreg Mach, five years after the promise she made alongside her classmates. A promise to Edie, but really, a promise to him. 

As she travels the road to Garreg Mach, her hopes--crushed so bitterly, over and over--soar once more. She knows it’s foolish. A girl’s delusions and nothing more. But there’s always a chance, and even if he’s nowhere to be found, perhaps she can commiserate with her old friends. Friends like Caspar, who she spots traveling the same road. She rides in with him, and they talk of everything that’s happened in the past five years. 

“You must be married by now, huh?” he asks after a lull in conversation. “I mean, five years is a long time. You probably had your pick, even in the middle of a war.” 

Years ago, she might have teased him; asked if that was disappointment she detected in his voice. It wasn’t. To Caspar, their goals were one in the same. Securing a future. It’d been everything to Dorothea once, but that seems like ages ago now. She wonders if his goals have changed just as much as hers.

Even though she doesn’t tease him, she doesn’t speak the absolute truth, either. “Oh, you know me. Choosy as ever. Even in the middle of a war.” 

He gives her a look that almost reminds her of the way Byleth once looked at her, as if he can see right through her. As if he knows the truth and pities her for it. She changes the subject, and does tease him, if for no other reason than to fluster him and keep him from voicing what she sees in his eyes.

But there comes a point when there’s no room in her heart for teasing. Living so close to the monastery, she’s seen glimpses of it on clear days. She’s never realized just how much it’s suffered over the years. The surrounding forest has overrun most of the flagstone, the growth of weeds breaking up what wasn’t already in ruins. There are passable routes--she and Caspar find them, despite it all--but the monastery is a shadow of what it once was. 

“Do you think they’ll show?” he asks, an edge of doubt to his voice. 

“We did make a promise,” she reminds him, as if they haven’t all broken so many promises now. Like the promise to never let their professor down. “And I’d like to hope that everyone else needs this as much as you and I do.” 

The mask slips, but Caspar doesn’t comment beyond a surprisingly solemn nod. They continue deeper into the monastery, to where Edie had them all promise so long ago. That’s when she hears it. The sound of a wyvern’s wings slicing through the air, of magic ringing out in the stillness. 

Her whole body tenses, her reflexes honed into a fine point by now. She reaches for her blade, pulls it from the scabbard. Caspar--as far from a stranger to this war as Dorothea--hefts his axe in both hands. 

“It’s coming from over there.” He pauses long enough to tell her this, then takes off in a charge. 

Dorothea follows, because what choice does she have? If someone is here, if someone is trying to further defile all the memories she has of this place, she will cut them down. If memories are all she’ll ever have, she’ll protect them to her last breath.

The overgrowth is thick, and she catches up to Caspar as he works his way through it. One fire spell is enough to clear a path, giving her time to get ahead of him--but just barely. Her teeth grit, her heart thundering as anger washes over her like a dark tide. How dare they. How dare someone come to this place to do battle. 

She catches sight of the wyvern first, its large wings blocking out much of the moonlight as the rider directs it downward in a practiced maneuver. The figure is familiar, but it can’t possibly be…

“There are more advancing from the right flank. Watch yourself!” 

It is. Seteth. She stands there, dazed for a moment as Caspar asks the same question she couldn’t speak aloud.

“Whoa, is that…?” 

She looks for the recipient of his caution, expecting to see Flayn or perhaps one of the other faculty members. Her heart leaps into her throat as she seizes on the other combatant, her soul recognizing him before her eyes can catch up. 

Byleth. 

It shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even be alive. And yet it makes perfect sense. Of course he’s here. They made a promise. 

“...Professor? Hey, Dorothea, wait!” 

Caspar’s calls are swallowed by the wind as she runs. It’s something out of a celebrated opera, the moment where the heroine reunites with her hero after so long. For the first time in years, she feels like singing again. Singing and laughing and weeping all at once. He’s alive. He’s alive and he’s here and he’s… 

Hurt. Badly hurt. Ice shoots through her veins as she watches him barely deflect the blow of a sword only to be pierced by a lance. Crimson stains his dark robes, and Dorothea sees nothing else. Not the men who’ve noticed her, who rush at her with weapons raised. Not Caspar, who trails behind for once, unable to keep up. All she sees is the horseman closing in for the strike, his mount rearing up, his spear poised for the killing blow. 

Magic has never come easy to her, but in this moment, it’s as automatic as breathing. She shouts, a war cry that pierces the night sky as clouds part above. The smell of ozone is thick in the air, lightning called down from the heavens to strike exactly where she commands it. The horse screams, the rider slumping in the saddle, his hair standing on end. 

“Thea.” Byleth turns to face her, those beautiful, knowing eyes of his widened in surprise. 

Many people have called her that, but when he says it, it feels like she’s finally home after such a long time away. “You’re here,” she manages, breathless. “You’re really here.” 

She wants to touch him, to be certain she isn’t just dreaming. She wants to throw her arms around him and never let go. But there’s no time. The enemy is closing in, threatening to take him from her again, and she refuses to let that happen.

No matter what else comes of it, he’s alive. He’s alive, just as she knew he must be. She’s so tired of war, but she’ll fight with everything she has to keep him that way.

And maybe one day, she’ll tell him all the things she’s wanted to say since that night at the Goddess Tower. Destiny be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last night I sat down and jotted down some bullet points for what I want to write in the back half of this fic. I always assumed it would be shorter than the front, but apparently not, lol. I've got 9-10 more chapters I want to write, with lots of things worked in there. This next one will be some angst with a dose of hurt/comfort, then the one after that is another Byleth POV chapter. Hope you enjoy!


	10. Uncertainty

The monastery is in no shape to house the injured, but they take him to the infirmary anyway once the battle is done.

He’s not the only one hurt. Until the rest of the Black Eagles showed up and the tide was turned, they all suffered some nicks and bruises. Nothing as serious as Byleth, but the cut across Dorothea’s arm needs stitches and Caspar’s arm needs a sling, just to be on the safe side. 

Byleth isn’t as bad off as she thought. The wounds he sustained aren’t _that_ deep, but each one of them still makes her fret as Flayn and Lin work to heal him. At one point, she and the rest of her classmates are ushered out of the room, and it’s all she can do not to pace the hall. 

She must not manage to hide her worries well enough, though, because her classmates comment on her state. 

“Dorothea, you are making me have great anxiety.”

The Brigid princess has gained a slightly stronger foothold in the language, but it seems much of her time has been spent training in other areas. There’s a sleekness to her now, her form built of lean muscle, her bearing more regal than before. 

For Brigid, the consequences of this war are especially dire. It’s a wonder she even came here, but of course Petra would never break a promise. 

“Yes, I agree,” Ferdie says in his oh-so-proper voice. “You should have faith in Flayn and Linhardt. They know what they are doing, and our professor is strong.” 

“Yeah,” Caspar adds. “He came back from the dead. I’m pretty sure he can handle a couple pokes from a spear.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dorothea says with a small smile. “You’re right, I’m just…” 

“Why aren’t the rest of you as worried as she is?” Bernie asks. In the battle Dorothea noticed she had a much steadier hand, but she hasn’t completely overcome her fears. “I was sure he was dead. Now to find out he wasn’t, only to see him surrounded like that...” 

Dorothea isn’t sure when she started empathizing with Bernie more than anyone else, but that’s apparently what her life has become. She doesn’t mind so much. As terrifying as it is, she’d rather show her feelings, let her classmates see this side of her than act the part of the carefree student and risk losing him again. 

To her great surprise, Lin puts that sentiment to the test, coming to sit beside her in the hall after he exits the infirmary. Dorothea’s back is pressed against the stones, her dress in tatters and already flecked with blood and dirt, but Lin looks relatively clean. The fact that he sits on the ground with her is no small wonder. 

“How is he?” she asks, her hands wringing together in her lap.

The others left a short while ago, though they haven’t gone far. Ferdinand and Caspar work on clearing the rubble from the main thoroughfare. Bernie has--in all honesty--probably gone to see if her old room is salvageable. Only Petra remains, keeping vigil at the end of the hall. 

“He had a five year nap while the rest of us fought for our lives, so I’d say he’s doing fairly well.” There’s no malice in his voice, but Dorothea recognizes it isn’t exactly a joke, either. “Flayn’s finishing up. She wanted to make sure nothing else happened to him while he was… in stasis?” He shrugs lightly. “Whatever it was, I suppose I’m not equipped for it. Not that I’m going to complain.” 

It’s been fairly obvious that Flayn possesses powers and abilities beyond those of a normal healer, though she doesn’t know the extent of them. She’s grateful for the help, and as anxious as it makes her, she’d rather Byleth’s care not be rushed.

“He asked for you.” 

Turning to look at him, she suddenly finds herself short of breath. “What?” 

Five years, and her heart still flutters to hear such a thing. She’d think herself ridiculous, but she’s long since come to terms with her feelings. Neither time nor the possibility of death has seen fit to change them.

“I can never tell if you’re pretending to be modest, or if you truly don’t know.” Lin presses his back against the wall and looks up at the sky. She swears there are lines in his face that weren’t there before. Lines he has no business having.

“I don’t know that I can pretend to be much of anything these days, Lin,” she admits, weariness edging its way into her voice.

He looks over at her and gives the smallest nod. “Good. It would be a waste of effort, anyway. You don’t need to pretend to be anything.” 

Color rises in her cheeks. She can’t remember the last time she blushed. “You’re very sweet.” 

“I’m just stating the obvious. I’m sure the professor would agree.” 

He had, once upon a time. But maybe she’ll seem different to him now. So much has changed in five years.

She sits and talks with Lin, catching up on their respective lives. It’s shocking to her, just how much she missed the simple act of being with her friends. Right now, they aren’t fighting to survive. They’re just existing, shoulder to shoulder, stealing a moment of quiet brightness in a world that’s become so very dark.

She’s nearly as grateful for that as she is for the fact that Byleth is alive. Her heart has more than enough room for both, even if there’s a clear preference. One it expresses when Flayn finally steps out of the infirmary and reiterates what Lin said: Not only that he asked for her, but that the request was very nearly the first thing out of his mouth. 

When she enters the room, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees. His hair obscures his eyes, but she can tell from the way he’s holding his shoulders that he’s upset. As the door shuts softly behind her, Byleth looks up, and oh, the look he gives her. 

If the intervening years have been gray at best, that look is like the sun finally appearing from behind the clouds. Dazzling in its intensity, so warm and welcome that it takes her breath away. She smiles at him, but she’s positive there’s no way she could ever recreate even a tenth of what that look makes her feel. 

It’s made that much clearer when he suddenly stands and closes the distance between them in a few short strides. Her heart scarcely has a chance to find its rhythm again as he pulls her into a hug that’s so very tight. It’s almost uncomfortable, but she’d take being crushed against him over spending years alone. Especially when his hands bunch in the fabric of her gown, the desperation of it reminding her so keenly of the kiss they shared. 

She doesn’t even realize the moment the tears start to come. It’s not until she sobs against him, her whole body shaking in his embrace that she’s conscious of it. It’s not just losing him that works itself through her, wringing her out so violently. It’s the death of some of her friends and the toll this war has taken on others. It’s a loss of innocence, of peace, two things she never even thought to recognize before they were gone. 

It’s not Byleth’s responsibility to bear these burdens, but he holds her until she stops sobbing. His hand strokes so soothingly over her back and through her hair, his warmth putting her more at ease than she’s felt in what seems like forever. When she finally pulls back--just enough to look at him--she’s an absolute mess, but… better than she’s been in a long time.

“This wasn’t exactly the second first impression I wanted to make,” she laughs, drying her eyes with her hands. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says softly. “If anything, I should be apologizing to you. I hate that all of you had to face this alone.” 

“Yes, it was very thoughtless of you to get yourself thrown into the abyss,” she teases, her voice rough with emotion. Her smile fades, even as his fingers continue to stroke through her hair. A heavenly feeling she’d love to appreciate under better circumstances. “What happened to you?” 

He shakes his head, his eyes closing for a moment. “I don’t know. The last thing I remember was that blast of dark magic, then trying to grab onto the side of the cliff. After that it was just… nothing, until someone dragged me out of the river and told me what day it was.” 

“Did Sothis…?” 

“Maybe,” he says, obviously uncertain, “but I haven’t been able to hear her since the Sealed Forest.” 

“Well whatever brought you back to us, I’m grateful for it.” Her hands move over his back and up to his shoulders in a way she thinks is more to soothe her than him. He’s warm beneath her fingertips, even through the cloth. Warm and very real. “I missed you. So much.” 

“I missed you, too.” 

Heat rises to her cheeks, but she arches a brow at him, a playful smile touching her lips. “During the time it took you to walk from the river to Garreg Mach, right?” 

He laughs softly, almost self-consciously. “You know what I mean.” 

She thinks she does. She wants to, and when she looks up at him, she swears she sees the sentiment in his eyes. But despite how little distance exists between them, he doesn’t lean down to kiss her. He seems to hesitate, and for some absurd reason, Dorothea does, as well. 

_What are you_ doing_, Dorothea? Are you waiting for him to disappear again?_

She opens her mouth to speak, but the words are stuck in her throat. It feels as if some otherworldly force has suddenly silenced her, but she knows this force all too well. It’s the same thing she experienced years ago, at the Goddess Tower and after. She doesn’t know where she and Byleth stand, and so some part of her dredges up every doubt, every fear, every insecurity she can find, even the ones she thought she’d left behind.

And then the moment passes, an air of awkwardness hanging between them. He lets go of her, and Dorothea suddenly feels unbearably cold. It takes all of her willpower not to wrap her arms around herself. 

“I… saw Edelgard,” he says after a long pause. 

That snaps her out of her self-pity, the switch so jarring that it nearly gives her whiplash. “What? Where?” 

“Here. Exactly where she had us make that promise.” A furrow etches deep between his brows and he turns away from her, running a hand over his face. “She asked me to go back to the Empire with her.”

Dorothea’s heart cracks just a little more, knowing Edie was still willing to give him that chance. She could have taken the opportunity to kill him. Tactically, maybe she should have. It doesn’t grant her forgiveness, but it’s… 

Yet another side to a multi-faceted war.

“I didn’t want to fight her, didn’t want to _kill_ her. Not then, and not before. When we were in the Tomb…” 

As she watches him, watches the agony in his profile, Dorothea feels that pain all over again. Of course it’s fresh for him. In his mind, it was weeks ago. Not years. 

“I thought I could find another way. I was sure of it. But I was also sure she wouldn’t raise a blade against any of us, and I was wrong about that, too.” His eyes close. When he finally opens them again, it’s to look out the window, the view of the courtyard obscured by rubble. “It was a choice between Edelgard... and everyone else. Forcing all of you into her revolution, I just… I didn’t see it ending in anything other than slaughter.” 

She notices now that his throat is a bit raw. Not just with emotion, but as if he hasn’t used his voice in a very long time. It’s yet more proof that he really _was_ in some kind of stasis for five years.

“You don’t have to explain your actions to me, Byleth. I… didn’t know which path was the right one, back then. I’m not sure I do even now. But I know it’s not the one Edie--” She closes her eyes defiantly and keeps the nickname where it belongs--in the past, “It’s not the one Edelgard’s walking right now. It’s not the path that treats the deaths of innocent people as a necessary cost of change.” 

“What if we’d stayed by her side, Thea? What if I’d done a better job of guiding her down the right path?”

When he turns back to her, he looks so completely lost. Younger than she knows he is. More human than she knows he is. She can tell this has weighed on him since it happened, and she doesn’t have an answer that will magically fix everything. All she can give him is the same thing he gave her minutes before. Something she’d desperately needed, even if she hadn’t known it at the time. 

Crossing the room, she enfolds him in her arms, holding him as tightly as he held her. He doesn’t lose it as completely as she did, but she can feel his body shake as he cries, his tears soaking through the cloth of her dress. 

“It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known,” she whispers, over and over in different ways.

She strokes through his hair, rubs his back, and doesn’t let go of him until he releases her in turn--something that happens long after the tears have stopped coming. It’s not the sweeping declaration of love she’d intended to make, but it’s what he needs right now. And in that way, it’s the most loving thing she could possibly hope to do for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should just retitle this fic to Stupid Idiots Who Are in Love at this point. How long am I going to keep torturing everyone with delayed gratification? Just one more chapter, honest. And it'll be a Byleth chapter with some firm decision-making at the end. I guess prepare yourself for more emotional!Byleth because that's apparently a thing when you spend 20 years feeling next to nothing.


	11. Serendipity

Settling into his old quarters is such a surreal experience. To Byleth, it feels like a matter of days have passed, at most. But the courtyard could stand to be cleared of debris and the first floor roof of the dormitories needs to be reinforced before he can even think of settling into his own bed again.

With all of that, he’d assumed his room would be in shambles, and he’s… not wrong, exactly. It _is_ a mess. The bed and table are overturned, the drawer is pulled so far out of the desk it’s nearly off its track, the bookshelf practically bars the door, and even his wardrobe has found a new home on the floor. But everything that’s wrong in his room is the result of direct human interference, which seems somehow better than the incidental damage found throughout the rest of Garreg Mach.

Someone was obviously looking for something. Strategic information, perhaps? Most of his notebooks are gone. The only one left contains just a few pages from the last seminar he attended. If they were hoping to secure grand battle plans from his notes, they were almost certainly disappointed. Most of Byleth’s best planning happened on the fly, his diagrams sketched onto the blackboard and then erased at the end of the day. 

It’s possible they were looking for correspondence. Maybe something between him and Rhea, though no such correspondence exists. Some of the notes he’s received from students _appear_ to be missing, but many more are just scattered about the floor. 

As he picks through it all, slowly setting things right again, he wonders if Edelgard searched his room after the fact. Looking for signs of where he might be, perhaps. Or--less charitably--looking for proof of what dwells within him, to better understand and perhaps destroy it. He doesn’t want to think that. Pain blooms in his chest at the mere possibility, and so he dismisses it and tries to focus only on the somewhat soothing task of returning things to the way they were with just a bit of effort.

_If only everything was so easily mended…_

His students have changed so much. He can’t even call them students anymore. They are his peers, now more than ever. Soon they’ll be commanders in the army Byleth knows he must lead. But he wishes he could spare them that fate. He wishes it more than anything. They’ve suffered enough, each of them forever changed by the reality of having to fight their former friends. 

And Dorothea…

Perhaps it’s just that he knows her so well, but he doesn’t think any of them have changed as much as Thea. She still has the biggest heart out of all of the Eagles, and he imagines that’s why the last five years have been so hard on her, in particular. He can’t imagine what she’s seen. In some ways, he doesn’t need to. It’s written all over her face, etched into the weariness he saw in her features, the deep sorrow in her emerald eyes. 

As much as he wishes he was here for all of them, it’s her he feels he’s failed, almost as much as Edelgard. If he’d been here these past five years, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. He’s under no illusion that he could have shielded her from it, nor would he want her to live in ignorance or go back to feigning a carefree and content state of being. But he could have done _something_. He could have been here for her, even if it was just to remind her every day that the conflict will end. To hold her and kiss away her tears and admit he’s just as devastated as she is, but that they’ll get through it together. 

Byleth lets out a heavy sigh as he hangs his robes and coats in the wardrobe once more. There’s no point lamenting what could have been if only he’d somehow managed to not disappear for five years. Time marched on without him, and maybe Thea has, too. She offered him comfort--more than anyone else ever could--but that could easily be attributed to how deeply she cares for her friends. She sought comfort from him, too, but it’s clear she didn’t come to him intending to bear the many scars she’s accumulated over their time apart.

Plucking the last garment from the floor, he catches sight of one of his saddlebags. It seems intact, somehow. Perhaps a bit of coin or some supplies were taken from it, but he doesn’t care about any of that. As soon as his fingers brush the supple leather, he remembers what he stowed inside those saddlebags. It’s serendipity to find them now, and he holds his breath as he searches. 

A scroll case rests within, a sheet of parchment rolled neatly, prepared for transport by courier. Byleth removes it with care and pulls the letter free. Tucked away, safe from the sun, the ink hasn’t faded in the slightest. His handwriting isn’t exactly the loveliest, most flowing script, but it’s easy for him to read. Partly because he still remembers writing it. 

_Dear Thea,_

_I’ve rewritten these first few lines seven times now. I think I’m just going to have to concede I don’t know how to start a letter properly. It seems a little unfair to blame Jeralt for that, because letter-writing isn’t exactly high on the list of required skills for a mercenary--it’s ranked about the same as dancing, I imagine--but I’m going to do it anyway._

_See? I’ve spent the entire opening of this letter talking about my father, which really isn’t ground I intended to cover in a letter to you. You probably write beautiful letters. If you’re still interested in talking to me after this one, I wouldn’t say no to a lesson. You were an excellent teacher at the ball. _

_I’m awful at transitions, too, so I’m just going to continue: We passed by the opera house on our way to the palace, and I found myself conflicted. I wish I’d seen you perform there. It’s so easy to imagine you lighting up the stage, moving your audience to tears, drawing people from far and wide who came just to see you perform. _

_But if I’m being completely honest, I like knowing you apart from that, too. So much of your identity is wrapped up in who you were, and I think it keeps you a bit blind to what you are now, and what you bring to the lives of the people who care about you. What you bring to my life, especially._

_I don’t know that I can accurately describe what it’s like to feel something after not feeling anything for so long. It’s like seeing the world one way--in black and white--then suddenly opening your eyes to find so much color. Golds and greens and reds and blues, colors you didn’t even know existed before, but that you now can’t imagine your life without. I know I’m not much of a poet, but that’s what you brought to my life, Thea. So much beautiful color. So many emotions I don’t think I would have experienced otherwise. _

_I know you’re worried this is all because of Sothis. It’s true that I didn’t feel emotions the way others do until she made herself known to me. But I don’t think she put them there. I think she gave them a place to exist, a way for me to see them for what they were. The people I’ve met are the ones who’ve put them there, you most of all._

_It isn’t Sothis who makes something inside of me light up every time you smile. It isn’t Sothis wearing the most ridiculous expression whenever someone speaks your name. It isn’t Sothis you kissed, and I can guarantee it isn’t Sothis who kissed you back. I can also say with confidence that it isn’t Sothis writing you this letter now, nor will it be Sothis who inevitably dreams about you later._

_This is probably the most absurd paragraph that’s ever been committed to parchment, but what I’m trying to say is that everything I’ve been, everything I’ve done… it’s just me. And whatever I am, all that I am, is yours. _

_I don’t want to live in a world without color, Thea. Now that I know what it feels like, I don’t think I can._

_Yours,  
(Just) Byleth_

It’s a silly letter. One he’d intended to send from Enbarr before he thought better of it. He’d held onto the thing, imagining he’d give it to her someday. Or just say the words aloud. Had he known then that everything would change so drastically…

Would it have been better for her to know the truth of how he felt? Or would it have made their parting infinitely worse? Without this letter, she might have been able to move on. Find someone else. Someone who wouldn’t get her caught up in a war that can have no true victor. 

_Maybe she already has._

The thought is such a swift kick to the gut that Byleth’s fingers clench reflexively on the parchment. He catches himself before he can inadvertently crumple it, then smooths the paper almost reverently. 

If she’s found someone else, if there’s someone in her life who’s treating her the way she deserves to be treated, then he’ll be genuinely happy for her. Devastated that the chance to be that person was stolen from him by the enemy, but happy for her. He has to be. Anything less would make him a terrible friend. 

And even if she hasn’t found someone, five years is a long time to hold onto feelings that might never be reciprocated. Perhaps she’s moved on. Perhaps she’ll never again see him as she did the night she said he was precious to her. 

He has to be prepared for that, and he has to be willing to let her go. They have a war to focus on and he needs to keep her--and their allies--safe. 

Byleth gently folds the letter, tucking it into his breast pocket, then spends the next half hour arranging his quarters as they were. Mechanically, he goes through a mental inventory, knowing he needs to give Seteth a list should the Empire have anything of import. He leaves no stone unturned, and in doing so, finds two items he’d dearly hoped were still there: Jeralt’s journal, and the ring. 

He holds the latter up to the light, watching the unassuming metal glitter under his gentle scrutiny. When he first discovered the ring, he’d had some inkling of whose finger he’d like to see it on. His feelings were new then, shaky and uncertain, and he hadn’t put much thought into it because it was a question for the distant future. 

But that was five years ago, and the future is more uncertain than ever. He knows who he wants by his side--who he wants to one day wear this ring. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life. And while it’s possible she’s moved on, he owes it to them both to tell her how he feels. To fight for her in the way she deserves, so that there can be no question in her mind.

If she wants his heart, it’s hers. It’s always been hers. 

A smile stretches across his lips, so unrestrained it’s nearly painful. Placing the ring safely inside a small compartment in his desk drawer, Byleth keeps the letter close to his heart--to bolster him, should his resolve ever falter--and heads out into the moonlight in search of Dorothea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think their epilogue is being foreshadowed by them exchanging these letters they wrote you'd... be absolutely right. 
> 
> On a less fun note, I live in Florida and I'm pretty much directly in the path of this latest hurricane. I've been having an anxiety meltdown over doing everything that needs to be done, and I honestly don't know how all of this is going to affect the release of chapters. Writing this will probably (maybe) keep me sane, but uploading it may end being an issue once power inevitably goes out. 
> 
> So bear with me, and I guess think good thoughts if you're into that sort of thing. :) In the meantime, thank you for the overwhelmingly positive response to this fic. I'm glad it's bringing so many people joy.


	12. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be way, waaay longer than I anticipated, but I hope you enjoy it. And I hope it makes the angst and buildup of the previous chapters worth it!
> 
> Again, future chapters may come out more slowly as I deal with a hurricane-induced power outage, but hopefully this one and the next couple will help tide you over if that happens.

Dorothea sits before the Goddess Tower, an all-too-familiar letter in her hands. 

She hadn’t been searching for that creased, slightly faded piece of parchment. The fact that she found it in her old room, tucked away where no one else would ever see, was mere coincidence. Or providence. 

It feels a little silly to have such a thought at a time like this. If any gods exist, they have better things to worry about right now. But finding that letter, reading it for the first time in five years is still striking enough to force Dorothea to confront her feelings and the fears that are so closely tied to them.

For days now, something has been building inside of her, wrapping around her heart until it’s so tightly wound that she can scarcely go a few moments without thinking about it. Without thinking about him. It must be true what they say, at least for her: Absence _does_ make the heart grow fonder. Having him so near after such a long time apart has made her feel as if she's constantly on the edge of the tallest cliff. And this entire time, she’s talked herself out of jumping, afraid he won’t catch her.

It’s the same fear she’s always had, well before she could lend any cohesive structure to it in her mind. The fear that she’ll be abandoned. That she’ll give everything and be left with nothing. She’d had a vague sense of it when coming to the Officers Academy, and a plan to combat it. But that plan was blown swiftly off-course when her sweet and mysterious professor sat beside her in the greenhouse one summer evening and told her she was _more_. It’d been scattered to the wind, only to reform her fears into something that wasn’t vague at all.

She’d feared Byleth rejecting her. Leaving her. Not looking at her in that same piercing way. She’d veered wildly between being certain there was no future for them, and needing desperately to hold onto the glimmer of hope she kept so close to her heart. 

Any reasonable person would have simply let go. It’s been five years of war and devastation. Five years where the man she loves was nowhere to be found. Five years where the yearning in her heart should have abated. He _had_ left her alone, even if it wasn’t his intention, and his importance in this conflict means it could very well happen again. Permanently this time.

But as she smooths away the creases in the parchment, Dorothea realizes those foolish hopes were the only thing that kept her together; the only thing that got her through the last five years. It has to count for something. It has to _mean_ something. She could have written it off as a harmless crush long ago, but not now. 

Everything this letter represents is a part of her now. Her love, her affection, her desire. Her willingness to take a chance, her fear of losing everything. The resilience of her feelings, when they should have long faded--just like this letter. 

It was a comfort to find it, and as clear a sign as she could hope for, had she been looking for such a thing. The existence of this letter practically demands she take that leap--let him know how she feels, because there might not be another opportunity. Even if he rejects her, at least she’ll have an answer to the question she could never bring herself to ask.

Leaving her room, she’d first started to head straight to his. But fear and doubt sank their claws deep into her consciousness, and she found herself taking a detour. Not back to her quarters this time, but toward the site of many a rumored love.

She’d intended to climb the spiral staircase and sit alone under the moonlight, letting the quiet “magic” of the Goddess Tower bolster her. But the tower had sustained damage during the siege, and she didn’t exactly want to find herself trapped beneath the rubble just to satisfy her own silly whims. 

So now she sits outside the tower, on a bench that faces it. The moon illuminates the courtyard below, the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers across the monastery grounds. It’s such a lovely night, even with everything that’s happened, and she allows herself to indulge for a few moments longer. A smile blooms upon her lips as she rises, letter folded neatly between two fingers, and accepts that her heart rate likely won’t reach anything resembling normalcy until after she talks to him.

“Alright. Just… take a deep breath, pull yourself together, and--” 

“Dorothea.” 

Her heart leaps into her throat as she immediately recognizes his voice. She can’t help the warm smile as she turns to face him, and the smile he gives her in return seems to shine brighter than the nearly full moon. 

“Meeting here by chance, on another autumn night? We’re a few days off, but I think the tardiness can be excused, given the circumstances.” 

The light teasing helps her confront the tangle of nerves that now occupy her stomach, as if thousands of butterflies suddenly take wing. It’s not a spectacle like last time, when she was so determined to hide away from him she’d said the most ridiculous things. But there’s the slightest hint of the old Dorothea in those words, and for once, she doesn’t mind. 

“Do you still think it’s destiny?” His features soften in the moonlight, his smile gentle. 

Dorothea’s heart thumps in staccato rhythm, her throat constricting. She looks up at the half-crumbled tower. “We’re here, after everything that’s happened. Maybe it is.” 

She feels him move closer, swears she can even feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. When she turns, he’s right there, and her own breath hitches. Thought leaves her for a moment, words fleeing before she eventually regains her composure.

“Picking up your old habit of wandering the monastery at all hours?” she asks, desperately hoping the answer is no. 

The slightest shake of his head makes her heart stumble over a beat. “I was looking for you, actually. I stopped by your quarters, but you weren’t there.” 

“Oh.” The word comes out on a breath. Her hands tremble as she holds the letter close to her chest. “Is there something you need?” 

“There is.” 

His gaze is piercing, and for once Dorothea allows her hopes to soar. He doesn’t come any closer, though. As she watches, he withdraws a folded letter from the breast pocket of his coat. 

“Will you sit with me?” he asks, gesturing toward the bench.

She gives him a smile that’s almost shy, by her standards. “Always.” 

Byleth sits on the stone bench, and as she takes her place beside him, she can’t help but be intrigued by the letter he holds. Especially as his finger moves over it in a way that seems to suggest an unconscious release of nervous energy more than anything else. So much so that she finds herself mimicking the action on her own letter before she slips it away.

She almost expects him to ask about it. She’s ready to tell him, if he does, but his thoughts are focused on whatever’s in the letter he holds. It could be something from the front, or perhaps even correspondence from Alliance territory--Seteth mentioned reaching out to potential allies during their last meeting. 

But given his current state, and the fact that he sought her out specifically, she doesn’t think so.

“I wrote you this letter in Enbarr,” he says, and the butterflies Dorothea just managed to get under control take flight again. “I thought I’d get a chance to deliver it in person, but fate had other plans.” His lips just barely twitch into a wry smile before his expression softens. “I’d like to read it, but you have to promise not to laugh at how terrible it is.” 

It takes Dorothea’s mind so long to recover from the fact that he wants to _read her a letter he wrote five years ago_ that the arch of her brow comes comically late. “I’m sure it’s not _that_ terrible.” 

“Tell me that again in a few minutes,” he teases with a smile.

He’s looking at her so intently, his beautiful eyes so full of emotion that Dorothea forgets how to speak, heat rising to her cheeks. “Even if it somehow _is_ terrible, I would… I would love to hear it.” 

Byleth carefully--almost tenderly--unfolds the letter, smoothing out the parchment. She can’t help stealing a glance, and just the salutation leaves her short of breath. He said it was a letter to her, but she didn’t expect… he’s never…

_He hasn’t even started the letter and you’re already being ridiculous,_ she silently chastises herself, pulling her gaze away from the flowing script that’s more elegant than she expected.

Dorothea hears him draw in a breath and when she casts him a curious glance, she sees his shoulders lift and his chest expand with the magnitude of it. Somehow the fact that he truly _is_ nervous does nothing to ease her own nerves, even though it’s painfully endearing. 

Byleth clears his throat, and she very nearly teases him about stalling when he finally begins. “Dear Thea.” 

Her lips softly part, her heart squeezing as he speaks what she read. A common salutation shouldn’t affect her so, but there’s warmth in his voice when he says it. If that keeps up, she isn’t sure how she’s going to make it through this. 

Fortunately--much to her amusement--the next several lines are so unconventional that she isn’t given the chance to wonder what exists beyond. Dorothea places her hand to her mouth to hide her smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You promised not to laugh,” he says, a smirk tugging at his own lips.

“I’m not laughing!” She bites her lip to stop herself from doing just that. “And I didn’t promise, if you’ll recall. I just said I didn’t think it could be that awful.” 

“Second-guessing that now, aren’t you?” he asks, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“I’m still deciding.” 

As nervous as she is, it feels wonderful to find joy in something. To just exist in this moment with him, as if the weight of the world isn’t a heavy burden upon both of them. To that end, it almost doesn’t matter what’s in the letter. That they can share this moment at all is a small miracle. 

She smiles softly to herself when he asks for a lesson in letter-writing, remembering very fondly the lesson she gave him in dancing. “I’m happy to instruct you, you know that.”

_In anything you wish._

The lightheartedness only continues for so long, though. When he speaks of the opera house, her heart aches. She hasn’t spoken to Manuela yet to see if the older woman’s been in contact with any of the actors or crew. She hopes they made it out safely. Enbarr might not be under direct siege, but it’s far from a hospitable place to live, and before long…

Dorothea is pulled from her rather morbid thoughts by the fact that he’s complimenting her, saying he wished to see her onstage. Some part of her wishes for that, too. For things to be that simple. But the smile that touches her lips doesn’t quite meet her eyes. 

That life is so far removed from who she is now. She doesn’t expect Byleth to comment on it his very next breath, though, and she looks over at him in surprise. 

“So much of your identity is wrapped up in who you were, and I think it keeps you a bit blind to what you are now, and what you bring to the lives of the people who care about you.” Her breath catches. She remembers this conversation. All too well. “What you bring to my life, especially.”

That was what she’d asked him, what she’d desperately wanted to hear at the ball. She knows he cares. She knows she’s had an impact on his life. As self-conscious as she is, even she can admit that. 

But to hear him say it so earnestly…

She almost expects some kind of reprieve; for him to obfuscate and hide his true feelings behind a mask of humor. But that is what she would do, and Byleth does nothing of the sort. There’s no more talk of his father, no more talk of letter-writing lessons and the reasons they’re necessary. He begins to pour out his heart on the page, the words spoken aloud with such conviction, and Dorothea is sure she’ll never breathe again. 

He claims not to be a poet, but as he describes a world suddenly filled with color--a world _she_ apparently gave him--Dorothea is moved nearly to tears. It’s so stunningly beautiful, and so much more credit than she deserves. She wants to tell him that, some part of her demands she do so, but she can’t bring herself to interrupt. 

As soon as he speaks of Sothis, she wishes she had. All of those old insecurities rush to the surface, threatening to strangle her. It takes a great effort on her part to block them out, but that effort is instantly rewarded as he gently dismantles her worries piece by piece. Dorothea’s lips are still parted and she just stares at him, her eyes burning with unshed tears as he proves how very well he knows her while addressing each fear in turn.

Very soon after, a flush steals across her entire body, something else in her burning as he admits to dreaming of her. She’s done everything in her power to bury her desires, to hide just how much she’s wanted him, but one image from him unravels that entirely.

“This is probably the most absurd paragraph that’s ever been committed to parchment,” he continues, in a complete shift of tone.

The laugh that bubbles up from her is rough and raw, thick with more emotion than she knows what to do with. She welcomes it, welcomes the break, but it doesn’t last. As Byleth reads the last of the letter, his eyes find hers. He doesn’t even look at the parchment. 

“What I’m trying to say with this ridiculous letter,” he swallows hard, “is that everything I’ve been, everything I’ve done… it’s all just me. And all that I am…” It’s impossible to misread the look he gives her. It’s so very full of _love_. “It’s yours, Thea. If you want it.” 

Her heart beats in thunderous rhythm, squeezing in her chest. Her breath is drawn in through a soft gasp, and the rest of the world ceases to exist. Everything in her is tuned to him. To those sweet, beautiful words she never imagined hearing from him, even in her most indulgent fantasies. To the adoring, almost reverent look in his eyes. 

“Byleth…” Her voice shakes, her emotions well past the point of overwhelming her. 

She knows how she wants to respond--the only way she ever could respond. _Yes, of course I want it. All of it, all of you. Now and always._ Fine enough words, and certainly true, but they fall short of the love that swells in her heart. There’s no way she can ever match what he’s just given her. Those words will be etched into her soul for as long as she lives.

Yet to her great surprise, it seems she isn’t the only one plagued by insecurity that need not exist. He doesn’t look at her when he continues speaking, the words coming out in a tangle of uncertainty. 

“It feels like I wrote this letter just yesterday, but I know it’s been years for you. If you don’t feel the same, if you’ve moved on, I completely understand. It’s not my intention to make you feel trapped, and if you truly don’t feel anything for me anymore--or maybe I’ve just been deluding myself this whole time and you--” 

She’s overcome with the sudden urge to stop his rambling and ease his worries in one swift action. His fears are so unsubstantiated that there’s no way Dorothea can express how wrong they are with words alone. So she doesn’t even try. 

Framing his face with her hands, she pulls him to her and kisses him in a way that could leave no doubt in his mind or hers. If their first kiss was a sudden revelation of love, this is the undeniable confirmation of it. As her lips memorize the contours of his, as he responds to her much more readily than before, Dorothea holds nothing back. Her kiss is as tender and loving as it is passionate and unrestrained, as trusting and vulnerable as it is intent on claiming what he’s so freely offered. 

She takes and gives in equal measure, her hands moving to his shoulders, then down to his chest, bunching in the cloth of his coat. Byleth’s fingers thread through her hair, his hand cradles the back of her head, and he kisses her as if he’s been starved for this. As if in doing so, he’s added colors to the spectrum that even Dorothea has never been privileged to notice before. 

Nothing in the world compares to this moment, and if she could somehow make it last forever, she gladly would. But her honest attempt to kiss him breathless works a little too well. Her lungs burn with the need for air and she’s forced to break away. Byleth doesn’t let her go far. His breath warmly caresses her lips, his fingers stroke through her hair, and she feels so much joy as she presses her forehead to his. 

“Nothing’s changed for me,” she tells him, her voice roughened by emotion. “I wanted to tell you in the infirmary, but I…”

“I was afraid, too,” he says, his hand moving to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking tenderly over her skin. 

She can’t imagine why he’d ever be afraid of this. Doesn’t he know how much she adores him? But then… she was the one who shied away from it last time. She rejected him, and she saw the effect it had even then. Is it any wonder he questioned her feelings? 

“After you told me about Sothis, all I could think was that I’d hold you back. That you needed to do such great things, and I’d only ever be in your way.” That’s only part of it, she knows. If she’s going to be honest with him, if she’s going to bear this ugliness to him, he needs to see it all. “I… I’ve always been afraid of ending up alone. I convinced myself you’d grow to resent me for keeping you from all that you’re meant to achieve. That you’d wise up and realize you can do so much better than me--” 

It’s his turn to cut her off. He’s gentle with her; tender. His lips caress hers and she responds in kind, letting him reassure her in a way she can’t refute. 

“Anything I achieve… none of it will matter if you aren’t by my side,” he says, the words so painfully honest she has no choice but to believe him. “I don’t want anyone else, Thea. Why would I? You’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever met, and that’s not going to fade with time. It’s just who you are.” 

Looking into his eyes, she finally catches a glimpse of what he sees when he looks at her. It takes her breath away, this image of her. It’s not one based off of fleeting beauty or talent of years’ past, but something she’s never let herself fully see. In her heart, she knows it’s always been there, but she doesn’t believe for a second that anyone else would have nurtured it as much as he has. 

Every step of the way, he’s tried so desperately to help her see it. Now she does, and it’s… beautiful. Far from perfect, but imperfect in a way she can tell he adores. In a way she’s slowly learning to adore, too. It will take time and patience. He’ll have to remind her, more often than she’d like. 

But without even having to question it, she knows he will. Every time she falters, he’ll be there. She can see it in his eyes. And there’s only one way she can think to express how much that means to her.

“I love you,” she whispers against his lips, “so very much.” 

She kisses him again, her lips moving tenderly against his. She’s not sure she’ll ever get tired of this clear expression of what exists between them; this privilege that affirms to her heart that he is hers, and she is his. 

“You’re everything to me, Thea,” he says, looking into her eyes. “I love you.” 

Never has she heard anything more beautiful, more perfect. Her heart is fit to burst and a joyful sob catches in her throat. Five years apart, months of dancing around their feelings, and somehow it’s all been worth it for this moment. 

To think, it was all because of a pair of letters. One that brought her here, to the Goddess Tower. One that prompted him to seek her out; to confess what’s been in his heart. She can’t help but laugh, the joy of it too difficult for her to contain, even if she wanted to. 

His brow arches in question, his eyes searching hers, a lovely smile on his lips. He hasn’t stopped touching her, she notices. His thumb strokes her jaw, his other hand tracing over the contours of her gown. He seems to be marveling over this as much as she is. 

“I intended to seek you out, too,” she admits, smiling as she withdraws the letter once more. “After I found this in my room. Shall I read it?” 

“You just want to show off your superior letter-writing skills,” he teases.

Dorothea grins. “Naturally.” 

He settles back against the bench, his arm sliding behind her, the tips of his fingers tracing over her shoulder. Dorothea leans into him, into his reassuring warmth, surrounded by the scent she’s missed so dearly. Holding up the letter, she reads from it, knowing full well he can see the entire thing.

It was so long ago that she wrote it, the words coming more easily than she could have ever imagined once she allowed them to flow from the quill, uninhibited. They’re even easier to speak now, and she very nearly embellishes to include what she’s positive she left out at the time. But he read directly from his letter, and so she does the same for him.

“Was this the letter you left for me?” he asks, his voice muffled against her hair. “How did I miss this… and how did you get it back?” 

“Oh, no. The letter I left was… less honest than this one.” Regret edges into her voice as she thinks back on it. “I would’ve been mortified had I left this one. I couldn’t imagine that you’d ever feel the same.” 

“You surprised me with that question, you know,” Byleth admits, his fingers twining in her hair once more. “I was so caught off guard that I just answered automatically.” 

“Professor!” She uses the title--and the tone of mock outrage--just to tease him a bit. “Do you mean to tell me you _didn’t_ intend to spend your life with me mere months after we met? I’m heartbroken.” 

She might have been, had he admitted this obvious truth years ago. But they were completely different people then, and whatever crush she developed on him after that wasn’t nurtured into anything more until after they’d already formed much deeper bonds. It might not be the fairy tale, love-at-first-sight affection that made its way into so many operas, but Dorothea finds she doesn’t mind. In fact, she prefers it this way. 

“That didn’t come until later.” 

After everything they’ve said to one another, Dorothea shouldn’t be surprised by that remark. Somehow color still rises in her cheeks, though, and she nuzzles against him in part to hide her face. It would have been one thing to hear a teasing lilt to his voice, but he sounds completely sincere. Sincere and unconcerned, as if wanting to spend his life with her is inevitable. 

“The night of the ball…” He moves on, his thoughts drifting, and she’s somewhat relieved to be spared from the incessant fluttering of her heart. “Did you really not know I’d come to the Goddess Tower for you?’ 

“What?” she asks, leaning back a bit so she can look up at him. “You said you didn’t read the letter. I find it hard to believe you lied about that.” 

“I didn’t,” he says softly. “My parents met at the Goddess Tower, so I guess I was hoping there might be something to the stories.” 

“You hoped that I would…” She trips over the words, but for once, she isn’t even remotely self-conscious about it. “Even back then?” 

His single nod fills her with such warmth, and she idly wonders if it’s possible for the heart to arrest from sheer happiness. 

“You were always so reserved,” she says, not bothering to conceal the fondness she feels for him. “To know you feel so deeply… I never would have expected this.” 

Dorothea turns, her hand lifting to his cheek, fingers tracing an almost reverent line down to his jaw, then his neck, before her palm finally rests against his shoulder. It’s still a marvel to her that she can touch him like this; that he’s truly _hers_, after all this time. It’s a very good thing, too, because when his hand rests just above the curve of her hip, the warmth of his skin searing through the fabric, all Dorothea can concentrate on is the sudden need to be closer to him.

“You only have yourself to blame,” he says, his voice the slightest pitch lower. 

“Is that right?” A slow smile curves her lips, and she feels far more confident than she has in ages. “I suppose I’m willing to accept responsibility for that.” 

When she kisses him this time, there’s a shift from the usual tenderness, a transition toward something more heated. She doesn’t bother to conceal her desire. It would be a useless endeavor, when his hand now moves over the curve of her hip, caressing with purpose. 

A soft sigh is muffled against his lips, her hands framing his neck as she cants her head just so. He hasn’t tried to deepen the kiss yet, but whether it’s from lack of experience or some misguided opinion of what it means to act the gentleman, Dorothea isn’t sure. She _is_ sure she's far from the most patient person to exist, and she desperately needs that closeness. 

She isn’t demanding. Not yet, at least. Her tongue traces the seam of his lips and she revels in the way he shudders. His lips part, granting Dorothea an invitation she gladly accepts, her tongue slowly sweeping, searching his. The rumble of pleasure that comes from him as she does so sets her aflame, and she can’t help responding with a soft sound of her own.

Emboldened, she shifts again, drawing her knee up to press against the bench. She moves the other opposite of him, settling it beside his hip, and he brings his legs in more accommodatingly. She’s finally forced to break the kiss as she situates herself, but it gives her a chance to see the heat in his gaze, combined with no small amount of awe. It’s a heady feeling, especially when she’s looking down at him by the end of it, straddling his legs, her hands gripping his shoulders for support. 

He meets her kiss this time, taking the initiative to deepen it, and a hum of pleasure gently vibrates in her throat. She arches against him, pressing her body to his, and basks in the feeling of his hands moving over her, spreading wildfire as one moves along her back, the other further down her hip. His fingers tangle in her hair as hers press back the open sides of his coat, and she’s all too aware of how quickly this could spiral out of their control. 

Right now, she finds it very difficult to care. Especially when his roaming hand bunches the hem of her gown. She doesn’t think it’s intentional, but the result is his fingers brushing her thigh, searing her already overheated skin, and Dorothea gasps against him. 

It’s enough that he breaks the kiss, looking up at her in question and concern. She shakes her head, taking a moment to try and catch her breath as one hand moves down to take his… and guide it more firmly to her thigh, the sheer fabric of her stocking hardly any barrier at all. He takes her cue, and the roughness of his callused hand is pure bliss, prompting her to resume the kiss with even more ardor than before, one of her hands finding its way to the hem of his shirt.

In the very back of her mind, she’s aware that they have absolutely no privacy here. Perhaps it’s that rational side of her that catches the sound of something striking the ground, followed by the creak of rusted iron. She breaks apart from him, her breath held as she looks for the source. Only to find an orange tabby walking precariously across the top of a wrought-iron gate, some stones dislodged from the nearby wall where it jumped. 

She can’t help but laugh, the absurdity and joy of it all coalescing into a fit of girlish giggles. She buries her face against the crook of his neck, unable to contain any of it. The fit becomes infinitely worse when Byleth joins in, and the two of them sound like a pair of giddy schoolchildren. It’s ridiculous, but the perfect expression of what it’s meant to steal time that’s just for them.

When she finally catches her breath, her hands move to cup his face once more and she brushes her lips against his in a gentle kiss. “I think we should agree to pick this up some other time.” 

Contentment hums through her at the thought. She wants him, and if he asked her to come back to his quarters now, she’d gladly do it with no regrets. But she doesn’t feel rushed, as if this is all the time she’ll ever get with him. There’s a future here, one he seems to acknowledge when he nods.

“That’s probably for the best.” 

The husky edge to his voice sends a shiver racing up her spine, and Dorothea has to disentangle herself from him before she inevitably loses her conviction. 

“Can I walk you back?” he asks, and when he stands, the moonlight paints a picture of just how disheveled he is. 

_The goddess truly is trying to tempt me…_ The thought nearly makes her laugh again, but she manages some modicum of self control. 

“You’d better not,” she answers, moving to straighten his coat for him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to resist the urge to just drag you inside.” 

The way his eyes darken just so tells her he wouldn’t mind that. Neither would she, but she holds firm to her resolve and leans up to kiss him one final time. “Sweet dreams, Byleth.” 

“I’m sure they will be,” he murmurs against her lips before she pulls away. “Goodnight, Thea.” 

He says her name with such fondness that it takes every shred of willpower she has to walk away from him--especially when she can feel his eyes on her as she does so. But this time, it truly is just goodnight, not goodbye. Her hopes have never soared higher, her faith in him so absolute that she knows this is the beginning of something beautiful and new, not the end. 

When she settles into bed for the evening, it’s with a smile on her face, and the assurance that anything she dreams now could not possibly compare to the reality she and Byleth now share.


	13. Heartbeat

By now, it shouldn't surprise her that nothing seems to go as planned.

Their attempts to secure Judith’s troops were met with an ambush. Some part of her expected it, though she honestly assumed the treachery would come from the potential allies who’d arranged for the meeting. She never used to be so cynical. The war has changed her, made her harder in many ways, and it scares her that she might never fully recover from that.

“Once your trust has been abused, it’s hard to give it freely,” Byleth tells her as they make camp after leaving that dreadful valley. 

She thinks of Edie when he says it, and the stab of pain in her heart nearly renders her useless as she sets up one of the tents. “Nothing’s ever going to be the same, is it?” 

He shakes his head, his attention on the stake he drives into the ground. “I have to hope that we can rebuild, once all is said and done. But no. The cost of this war is something we won’t ever forget.” 

She thinks of the battle they just “won,” the stains of it still fresh upon her armor. It’s not the first time she’s been forced to confront old allies, but it was a first for Byleth. As soon as he noticed Ashe among the assembled soldiers, he ordered their troops to give the archer a wide berth. It might have worked, had Ashe observed a similar truce. But there are few truces to be had in war, and Ashe continued firing upon them from afar, pinning their advance and injuring several of their troops in the process.

In the end, there was no choice. Byleth was forced to send a strike team to deal with him. He’d very nearly gone himself, but had thankfully been talked out of it by Shamir. His heart was in the right place--it always was--but this was now a matter of protecting their own, or allowing needless casualties because of some distant hope that things could change in the middle of battle. 

He’s been distant since it happened, answering only the most necessary questions and keeping to his tasks. She wishes she could comfort him, hold him like she did in the infirmary, but there’s no time for it. 

In truth there’s been precious little time to spend alone with him, regardless. It’s enough just to be near him, to catch his gaze every now and again and silently let him know she’s there. His features soften every time, easing from that of a stern tactician, and it makes her feel like she has a more crucial role in all of this than she thought. Even still, the journey back to the monastery is a long one, morale is a mixed bag of double-edged success, and she longs for those perfect, uncomplicated moments they stole in front of the Goddess Tower.

In many ways, it feels selfish. Why should she be gifted such happiness when others are mourning their friends, their family, and the places they called home? It gives her pause, sparks guilt within her, but it’s not nearly enough to keep her away once they finally make it back to Garreg Mach. She needs this, and she knows he does, too. 

“I could use some tea,” he says once they finish getting Judith’s men settled in the barracks. “Though it’s a bit too chilly to take it in the courtyard.” 

It’s not a _subtle_ invitation by any means, and Dorothea makes a note to tease him about it later. 

She meets him in his quarters, and the instant his arms come around her, her heart feels less burdened than it was before. The rest of the world falls away as she kisses him, seeking physical, tactile reassurance that he’s alive and well and still hers. He’s all of those things, though the tea grows tepid before she’s satisfied with the answer. 

“At this rate we really could have taken it in the courtyard,” she teases, sitting beside him with cup in hand. “Though I have to say I prefer this.” 

It might be for the best that it’s not scalding hot. Her lips are a touch tender, having been so thoroughly attended. A blush rises to her cheeks as her tongue runs over her bottom lip, right where he gently took it between his teeth mere minutes ago. 

“So do I,” he says, taking a sip of tea. He tries not to make a face at the temperature, but she catches the slightest wrinkle of his nose. “Maybe I’ll wait to brew it next time.” 

“You’re becoming more of a tea snob than Ferdinand,” she says, nudging him playfully with her shoulder. 

“He gave me quite the lecture the other day,” Byleth says, his eyes practically sparkling, a smile curving his lips that Dorothea finds riveting. “‘Professor, I know it’s unkind to criticize too harshly, but I cannot condone your choice in tea.’ He spent fifteen minutes explaining why Albinean berry blend is a substandard tea.” 

She laughs, shaking her head. The warmth in her cheeks spreads throughout her body. He keeps that blend on hand because of her. He’s always kept a stock of it, even when the berries were out of season.

_So many little things he’s done… why didn’t I see it earlier?_

“It might break his poor brain to know it’s not actually your favorite,” she says good-naturedly. 

Whatever problems she had with Ferdie, they’re in the past now. He explained himself, and even if he hadn’t, it’s such a waste, such a foolish thing to fight with allies in the midst of a true conflict.

“It is now,” he says, and Dorothea smiles to herself, looking down at her cup. After a few moments of companionable silence, he continues, a note of concern in his voice. “I hope you don’t think I’m trying to hide you away.” 

The comment catches her off guard, which is… a pleasant surprise. The fact that her insecurities didn’t create that fear and run with it is progress. Even if she does feel the slightest twinge of anxiety when the words leave him, it passes without incident.

“I don’t think that at all.” Keeping one hand on the tea cup, she entwines her other with his. “Everything’s so hectic right now. You and I have few enough moments alone together. I’m okay with not inviting comment or criticism just yet.” 

She lifts their joined hands to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Now that she knows he has his own fears, she’s much more conscious of her role in allaying them. The warm smile he gives her as she does makes it so very worth it.

“I guess I also worry that it puts a target on your back. If something happened to you because of me…” 

“There’s a target on my back either way, simply because I chose you and not the Empire. It’s the same for all of us,” she says with a sad smile. “But it was my choice, and I’d gladly make it a thousand times over.” 

She can tell that does little to comfort him. Unfortunately, it’s the truth. Their enemies know she willingly stands at his side. Knowing she loves him isn’t a hard leap for anyone to make, but it also doesn’t change anything. 

Leaning over him, she places her unfinished tea on the bedside table and slides her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Byleth sets his own tea aside and shifts to better accommodate her, his arm going around her in turn.

“You’re not going to lose me,” she promises him. “You’re stuck with me now.” 

“Anything but that,” he deadpans, though the fact that he kisses her immediately afterward severely undermines the act.

This time, it doesn’t matter that the tea is forgotten. Dorothea sets herself to the admirable task of mapping out the planes of his torso, having slipped his coat off his shoulders. She traces the lean muscle beneath his soft tunic, taking care to further memorize his mouth in the midst of such an important study. 

His own hands roam, but he’s a bit more proper than she’d like. Oh, it’s heavenly to feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of her own garments, but he seems to take care not to push many boundaries. At one point his finger very nearly brushes the curve of her breast and Dorothea’s breath catches in her throat, anticipation winding through her. He shies away, though, and she doesn’t push him. Perhaps next time she’ll give him a gentle nudge, though, because it seems to be nervousness and uncertainty--not a lack of desire--that keeps him from doing anything further. 

There’s time for it. Plenty of time after the war, if nothing else, and she wants to enjoy every bit of this; treasure each new sensation, knowing at some point, she’ll run out of firsts with him. 

So she pulls away gracefully, before things can escalate too far. Smoothing down her clothes, Dorothea leans in to kiss him once more, and while he responds, there’s something he’s holding back. Something she can see in his eyes after. 

“What is it?” she asks gently. 

“I know this room probably isn’t the best for accommodating two people,” he says, looking around the small space, “but… would you stay tonight?” 

She does nothing to hide her surprise. Even if her heart is quick to answer, she didn’t expect that. It catches her so off guard that she can’t manage to say anything before he fills the silence with an explanation.

“Ah, that… came out as more of a proposition than I planned.” His blush is adorable, and it does wonders to ease the tiny bit of disappointment she feels. “I just… I haven’t been sleeping well. Honestly a part of me is afraid to go to sleep, considering how long I was away before. But I thought if you were here…” 

Her expression softens considerably, and any lingering disappointment fades completely. The fact that he wants her here for her presence alone, just to have her near, is incredibly touching. And she suddenly realizes she’s… never done this before. Not with a man, at least. Every time a man’s asked her to stay the night, it’s always been for a very specific purpose.

A blush rises in her cheeks and she suddenly feels much younger than she is. “Of course I’ll stay. Let me just get a few things from my room.” 

She returns in more suitable sleepwear, though with a change of clothes for the morning in case there’s no opportunity to make it back to her room. She also brings a few things that have always been part of her nightly ritual--a hairbrush, a mirror, and a handkerchief she can use to wash off any makeup the day hasn’t seen fit to strip from her already. 

As she sets the mirror upon the desk and sits before it, Dorothea feels her nerves alight within her. Even more than they would have if he _had_ propositioned her, which is ridiculous to think about. But the truth is, there’s something unmistakably intimate and… domestic about sharing these moments with him. 

She wants to. It’s a little disarming just how much she wants to. But it’s new territory, and she can’t help but be unsure of her footing. 

“Don’t let me interrupt whatever process you have,” she says, dipping the edge of the handkerchief into a basin. 

For a moment she wonders if she should have just done this in her own room. He loves her, yes, but she can’t imagine he has an interest in such mundane things. She resolves to move through it as quickly as possible and stops herself from watching him in the mirror as she hears him change into sleep appropriate attire. 

The makeup is removed with ease, but when Dorothea reaches for the brush, she can feel his eyes on her. Glancing into the mirror, she sees he’s taken up position on the edge of the bed, dressed now in a longer tunic and pants. 

“Sorry, I’ll only be another moment,” she says, unable to help feeling self-conscious. 

“Take your time.” There’s an odd, distant quality to his voice, as if he’s transfixed. When she looks back at him fully, she realizes… he is. And maybe he’s been watching her longer than she thought. “Though if you need a hand, I’m happy to help.” 

Just one look, just a few words and her fears evaporate completely, leaving her to wonder what she possibly did to deserve this. Smiling to herself, Dorothea holds out the brush. 

“You won’t hear me object. It’s been forever since someone else brushed my hair, but it was always something I enjoyed.” 

“I hope I can do it justice, then,” he says, coming to stand behind her and taking the offered brush. 

She has no doubt he will. Her skin practically tingles as she awaits his touch. It’s a silly thing to be excited over, but it’s always been a small, comforting pleasure. And as Byleth begins to carefully brush through her long hair, she finds it’s even more enjoyable now. Maybe it’s the tenderness with which he works, or just the fact that it’s him. 

Whatever it is, it’s heavenly. She lets out a soft sigh, closes her eyes, and just enjoys the attention. So much that she catches herself before voicing a whimper when he gets close to finishing, his fingers following the path of the brush. 

Or… she thought she caught herself. The smallest rumble of a chuckle comes from him as he leans over her to set the brush on the desk. 

“I’ll have to beg you to do that more often, you’re--” 

The words catch in a gasp as his lips skim her neck. She felt his breath on her skin, felt him sweep her hair to the side with his hand, but somehow she still didn’t expect this. The surprise of it renders her motionless for a moment, a warmth building at her center. 

He doesn’t stop at that one kiss. His lips paint a heated trail along the curve of her neck, and Dorothea tilts her head to give him better access, letting out a shaky breath as her hand comes up to tangle in his hair. 

Byleth takes his cue from her reaction and becomes even bolder, his lips parting, his breath searing her suddenly flushed skin. The touch of his tongue makes her shiver, and when his teeth graze her skin at the junction between her neck and shoulder, her fingers tighten reflexively in his hair, a soft moan escaping her. 

“Byleth…” she breathes, her voice strained. “If you plan on actually sleeping tonight, you should probably…” Another gasp as he slides back the fabric at her shoulder, pressing a kiss upon newly-bared skin. “...Not keep doing that.”

The last thing she wants is for him to stop, but it feels wrong not to warn him. Otherwise he has a few more moments of this before she shoves him back to the bed and demonstrates how very unfair this unfettered access is. 

But he does stop. He draws back from her, his lips brushing her skin one last time, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “Sorry,” he says, and she’s sure he isn’t. “I couldn’t resist.” 

She tries her best to compose herself before rising from the chair and turning to face him. Her hands slide over his chest, rounding his shoulders before she links them behind his neck and kisses him deeply. 

“Let’s get some rest,” she murmurs against his lips, vindicated by his breathless chuckle. 

The bed is small. Barely large enough for the two of them, but Dorothea doesn’t consider it any great sacrifice to press close to him. He rests on his back at first, one arm around her as she curls into him, her cheek against his chest. She closes her eyes, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall, so contented it takes her several moments to notice something is amiss.

“Do you… are you normally… Byleth, does your heart not… beat…?” 

His chin tucks against his chest as he looks down at her, a flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. He just shakes his head, and Dorothea lays there in stunned silence for several more moments. 

Finally, she regains her composure, leaning up to brush her lips against his. “Then you can share mine, since it’s already yours.” She laughs at herself, a flush stealing across her cheeks as she nuzzles against him. “And you say _you’re_ not a poet. That was awful.” 

“It was perfect,” he says, his fingers moving along her shoulder to rest against her neck. 

After a moment she realizes what he’s doing, her pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. Smiling at him, Dorothea settles in and lets her eyes close once more, this time lulled to sleep by the gentle beating of her own heart.

She’s awoken later by the sound of his panicked voice calling her name. He thrashes, the bedding tangled in his legs. Even before she fully comes to consciousness, Dorothea cups his cheek, speaking softly to soothe him. 

“Shh. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

His eyes open and she can see the fear in them. All she can do is keep touching him, keep speaking to him until he’s able to distance himself from the nightmare. But when he starts to tell her about it, Dorothea feels her heart break for him.

“I… I dreamed that I’d joined Edelgard, but you hadn’t. And I…” 

She knows where the nightmare came from. His mind has taken what happened with Ashe and turned it into yet another way to torture him. 

“It was just a dream,” she says emphatically, though her voice is still soft. “That’s never going to happen. I promise you.” 

She holds him close, and while there are no tears, she can feel him shaking. She keeps whispering to him, stroking his back until the tremors abate--until she finally hears the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he’s coaxed back into sleep. 

When she’s sure the nightmare has passed, she lets herself drift off again, too. And despite the thoughts that dream conjures--thoughts she’s easily able to dispel with their current reality--Byleth’s presence grants Dorothea the most restful night’s sleep she’s ever managed since the war began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 3: This is my second time editing in a little note! My hope is to finish ch 14 tomorrow morning. I'm even setting my alarm early to sneak in the extra time lol, that's how dedicated I am to getting this very long smut chapter out into the world. :P


	14. Affirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me so long to finish this chapter! I wanted to make sure it was decent, which has unfortunately been more difficult than I'd like recently. I hope the fact that it's basically the length of three chapters in one will make up for the wait, lol. 
> 
> This is for sure M and explicit, though I tried to make sure the language used matched the tone of the rest of the fic. So nothing flowery, but nothing in-your-face explicit, either. I'll bump the rating to accommodate, but I wanted to give a heads up in case that's not your cup of tea and you want to skip this one. 
> 
> If you don't skip it, I hope you enjoy! Heading into the final stretch here, and future chapters should come a bit more quickly.

The last month has delivered blow after devastating blow.

Dimitri dead. Claude missing. Edie injured. Countless others in the same predicament, paying the price for a war they didn’t start. The news of it shakes Dorothea to her core, and not just because of the massive casualties sustained. It feels like a near miss for them. Had Dimitri not been so hell-bent on intercepting Edelgard’s troops, they might well have been pulled into the conflict, too.

They need a victory, and it seems to come, at long last, within the walls of Fort Merceus. While she might not have the most gifted mind for tactics, even Dorothea can understand just how valuable that fort is to their efforts. Laying siege to Enbarr--something that still makes her ill to think on--isn’t something they can do from the relative safety of Garreg Mach. They need a stronghold to prepare and refresh troops, because the reality is that many people _will_ die, and a lack of nearby reinforcements will guarantee defeat.

But their victory doesn’t last long. Out of nowhere, Fort Merceus is destroyed by forces she can’t even begin to fathom. It’s a massive undertaking to evacuate their troops in time, and still they suffer losses. Some of Judith’s men are pinned by rubble, one of Petra’s pegasus riders is clipped by the blast, and several infantry are unable to escape the explosions. No one walks away from it unscathed, the emotional anguish rending deep into Dorothea’s soul.

Returning to Garreg Mach feels like a defeat in and of itself, even if she knows they must. They need to recover and plot a new approach, otherwise their siege upon the Empire won’t make it past the gates. 

Unable to stomach feeling useless, Dorothea puts herself in charge of planning an auxiliary effort to evacuate as many citizens as she can. Seteth agrees to lend some of his wyvern riders to the task, and even Ferdinand volunteers to lead a group out of the city. By the time she retires for the night, she at least feels as if she’s making some kind of impact, even if it’s not terribly reassuring.

She heads straight to Byleth’s chambers, far past the point of being concerned about appearances. Especially when they share a living space now, and have since that first night she shared his bed. First it was just his old room in the dormitories, then he finally gave in to Seteth’s urging and accepted a larger room. She hadn’t known what to do with the extra space at first, but it’s proven to be indispensable. There’s enough space for her things beside his, a large enough bed that they can sleep comfortably, a couch on which to lounge, and even a fireplace Byleth’s kept burning as the nights have grown colder.

He’s there when she arrives, fussing with the fire, coaxing it beyond embers. As soon as she enters, he smiles at her. Weary, but warm. “How’d it go?” 

“Better than I expected,” she says, slipping off her fur-lined cloak and draping it over the back of a chair. As tends to happen with their now combined nightly ritual, Dorothea is the one who gets the kettle ready for tea. “There are enough volunteers to really make a difference, so long as we can keep the bulk of the forces away from the busier districts.” 

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure that happens,” he promises, and they talk a bit more of the plan for that initial push and how Dorothea’s mission might intersect with it.

Throughout it all, there’s an underlying tension. She can feel it humming beneath the surface as they both ready themselves for bed. There are things being left unsaid, and they’re too close to the end for that. The room is nearly silent--just the occasional clink of cup upon saucer--when she finally addresses it.

“I’m not ready for this.” 

At first, she can’t even bring herself to look at him when she admits it. It feels like she’s failing him, when so many people were ready to lay down their lives for the cause. There’s no world in which Dorothea has prepared herself for the possibility of never returning from this mission. Just thinking it seems to wall off something in her mind--something that immediately ejects her from that line of consideration. 

Of course it isn’t just the prospect of confronting her own mortality that terrifies her. It’s confronting Edie, too. Knowing that only one of them will ever leave Enbarr again. It shouldn’t be this way. Even now, some defiant part of her searches for a way to resolve this conflict without any more bloodshed. But it’s been five long years, and the only way they can put an end to it is by driving a blade through the heart of the one they once called friend.

“Neither am I,” comes the soft admission from across the small table.

She looks up to find Byleth’s brows drawn so tightly together that there’s a prominent crease between them. His gaze is unfocused, his thoughts as far from this room as hers seem to be. For months now, this space has almost been something sacred for them. The outside world has rarely reached them here, and when it has, they’ve supported each other through it.

But Dorothea isn’t sure how to support anyone through this. It feels insulting even to try, when the gravity of what they’re facing--of what they must do--can’t be understated. 

“The only thing that makes it worth it is the hope that we won’t constantly need to look over our shoulders once this is done,” he continues. “We can move on. Honor those we’ve lost, but live our lives outside of the shadow they cast.” 

She can tell from the slight catch in his voice that he isn’t just speaking of Edie or anyone else they stand to lose to this senseless war. She wants to tell him Jeralt would be proud of him, but the sentiment would ring hollow. She didn’t know the man, and considering what Byleth has told her over time about his distrust of Rhea… 

There’s no right answer. There never has been. So Dorothea stays silent, even as her mind treads an even darker path. This entire time, she’s assumed she’d find her place supporting the front line infantry, but some of their most crucial battles have been decided by the actions of a single person. Dorothea herself has even provided a clutch spell a time or two.

What if circumstances force her to do it again? What if she’s the one who has to look Edie in the eyes and choose to end her life? The thought sours her stomach, and nearly everything in her rebels against it. For all that she doesn’t agree with Edelgard’s methods, she doesn’t think she could ever be the one to kill her.

Even as that certainty settles over her, though, a nightmare scenario creeps into her conscious mind. Byleth disarmed, driven to his knees, completely at the mercy of the woman standing over him with her axe raised like an executioner. It would be as it was in the Tomb, only a hundred times worse. 

If that was the case… she wouldn’t hesitate. Not for a second. It would come as easily to her as breathing, and while it should scare her how much conviction finds its way behind that thought, Dorothea finds it oddly comforting. She won’t allow herself to be paralyzed by fear. If things start to fall apart, she’ll give the last beat of her heart to make sure he stays alive. 

As her thoughts turn more fully toward Byleth, Dorothea’s pulse picks up, hammering out a frantic rhythm. Losing him now… it would destroy her. She’s sure of it. It was bad enough before, when she’d only had the briefest taste of what a life with him could mean. Now she’s spent every day by his side, every night in his arms. She knows what it feels like to be truly _loved_\--to have someone look at her as if she’s precious, and to see the exact same in him. 

She wouldn’t be who she is today without Byleth’s influence, and all she wants--more than anything in the world--is to see how they continue to influence one another as the years stretch on. 

It’s something she’s wanted for some time now, though she never allowed that tiny spark of hope to alight into a brilliant flame until recently. They’ve both nurtured it over the past few months, and Dorothea protects it with everything inside of her, shielding that flame against even the most turbulent winds. 

This one certainly is turbulent, threatening to snuff out that dream completely. She pushes back against it, and in doing so realizes that she’s been going about this all wrong.

Tonight shouldn’t be spent indulging a downward spiral of fear and doubt. It shouldn’t be spent thinking about things neither of them can control. This is their last night at Garreg Mach. They’re alive and well and _together_. 

_Maybe for the last time._ The thought comes unbidden, and Dorothea’s quick to push it away, deciding to put action to her realization that they’re wasting this precious gift they’ve been given. Setting aside her tea cup, she stands from her chair and reaches for his as well, placing it on the table beside her own. 

He looks up at her and she leans down, framing his face with her hands as her lips brush against that still-present crease between his brows. Deciding that isn’t quite close enough, she slides easily onto his lap, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. 

She’d intended it to be a move of confident grace--perhaps even a touch seductive, for the sake of distracting him. But as his attention pulls only to her, the demons that plague him forgotten for now, Dorothea finds herself leaning into a soft sort of sincerity more than anything else. With anyone other than Byleth, such a thing might make her feel vulnerable. But with him, it’s just her natural state of being. 

“We’ve spent the last week discussing strategy and tactics, planning for every possible outcome. You’re never able to sleep through the night because you have nightmares of the battle that awaits us. We’ve paid our dues, Byleth,” she says softly, pressing another kiss to his brow. “Tonight can just be for us. Whatever that means--whatever you want it to mean--I’d rather spend these last few hours appreciating what we have.” 

His arms loop around her and he looks up into her eyes. She can see understanding there, not just of what she desires but why it’s such a prominent thought tonight when she was content to wait and savor every new experience. 

A bit of resentment flares within her at the thought that they can’t have that--there’s no time. But she lets go of it quickly. There’s no place for it here, and it’s a foolish thing to feel, besides. Tonight doesn’t have to be some rushed affair. She doubts very seriously either of them were going to sleep much regardless, so if Byleth is willing, she’ll gladly practice patience and restraint.

“Are you propositioning me, Miss Arnault?” he asks, an affectionate curve to his lips.

“Is it working?” Her thumbs stroke softly over his neck and she smiles down at him, a pleased hum sounding in the back of her throat when he answers wordlessly. 

His mouth captures hers, the gesture firm, confident, and a little desperate as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Dorothea tries not to be too swept away by it, but the flutter that alights with in her warms her through and she kisses him back in the same unreserved fashion. 

When the necessity of breathing forces them to part, Dorothea rests her forehead against his, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she works to catch her breath. There’s at least one more thing that needs to be said before she gladly loses herself in this. 

“I love you, Byleth, and I don’t think I’ve made it any secret that I want you,” she says with a smile that’s a touch shy. “I would love to share everything I can with you, but only if you’re comfortable with it.” 

He kisses her again and it’s like the very first time. So full of passion, something she now knows exists inside of him, but is still pleasantly surprised by when he lets go of his usual restraint. 

“Trust me, it’s not a lack of desire,” he says, a husky edge to his voice that makes her shiver. “I’ve wanted you for… longer than I care to admit.” 

She arches a brow at that, undeniably pleased but also incredibly curious to know how far back that extends. Perhaps her early ridiculousness had more of an effect on him than she realized. It was a good thing he never acted on it, though. There’s no way they would have ended up at this place, one built of love and trust and a connection that’s deeper than she’s ever had with anyone else. 

“But I’m… ah, not that experienced,” he says, a flush rising to his cheeks. “And by ‘not that experienced,’ I mean not at all.”

For all that she’s guessed this, Dorothea still finds herself a little surprised. Even as a mercenary traveling all the time, it seems hard to believe he wouldn’t have had the opportunity. It is a comfort that his reluctance up until now was borne of simple inexperience, though. Inexperience is easy enough to overcome, and her expression softens as she realizes he’s putting an absurd amount of trust in her. 

For once, she doesn’t worry about whether or not she’s deserving of it. Leaning down, she kisses him softly, her lips lingering near his as she says, “Then I guess I’ll get the rare pleasure of teaching you. Dancing, letter-writing, and now this? You’re going to spoil me.” 

“I’m okay with that,” he says, his lips quirking into a grin. 

She bridges the distance to kiss him again, and while the horrors that await them in Enbarr haven’t been lost to Dorothea’s mind, they’re pushed aside to make room for something far more pleasant. Especially when she’s able to draw a soft groan out of him after taking his bottom lip between her teeth. 

For some time, their mutual distraction takes the form of many of their past encounters. Tender, loving kisses that give way to deeper and more passionate kisses, hands bunching in fabric, tangling in hair, and roaming over mostly-clothed skin. Dorothea finds she doesn’t feel hurried in the slightest, but the desire for more is strong. And now that she doesn’t have to hold back--now that she knows he merely needs guidance--she indulges. 

Her hands move down to the hem of his tunic and she grasps the fabric between her fingers, pushing it upward as her palms simultaneously move over his bare skin. The muscles of his abdomen jump reflexively beneath her touch and Dorothea shivers at the warmth and definition beneath her fingers. 

She’s always known him to have the body of a swordsman, but knowing and feeling are two completely different things, and she takes the time to appreciate each line cut into his form, following the planes of his torso up to his chest. The muscles there are even more solidly defined, but the enjoyment she gets from touching him is dampened somewhat by the feeling of smooth, raised skin beneath her fingertips. 

A flash of memory hits her. Five years ago, in the Holy Tomb when he was blasted backward by Hubert. Or perhaps it was after that. Perhaps it was the impact that took him from her for such a long time. Whenever it happened, it’s a source of pain and her heart aches to think of him suffering. 

So she does the only reasonable thing she can think to do under the circumstances: She tugs the tunic up and off, tossing it aside, then takes his face in her hands and kisses him deeply. 

With the tunic gone, her hands move over his shoulders and down to his back where she rakes the hint of nails over bare flesh. That pulls a rather satisfying gasp from him and inspires his own hands to wander with more confidence, blazing a trail of fire through her thin nightgown. Recognizing he might want a bit more guidance, she decides to help him along, pressing a kiss to the sharp curve of his jaw as she continues to his ear.

“First instruction: I’m yours. Every part of me.” She nips at his ear, prompting him to shiver. “Nothing’s off limits. Anything you’ve imagined, I promise you I’ve imagined it, too.”

In truth, she’s imagined so very much, for so long. He’s been the sole source of her fantasies for many years now, and it’s comforting to know that he always will be. 

“I just want you to enjoy this,” he says, his tone so endearing that her chest tightens with a surge of emotion.

Pulling back to look into his eyes, she makes sure he can’t possibly misunderstand. “There’s zero chance of me not enjoying this. But… I also know how observant you are. Take your cues from me, because I’m not going to be subtle.” 

“I think I can manage that.” The roughened edge to his voice sends a thrill through her, and predictably--quick learner that he is--he puts this information to use immediately.

His lips skim over the column of her neck, featherlight touches ghosting over her skin. He lingers at her pulse point and she smiles, her eyes closing while her hands continue their exploration of his back. The scrape of his teeth is a welcome surprise, though, and her fingers curl reflexively against him as his hands seek out the hem of her gown. He pushes it to her thigh and a gasp catches in Dorothea’s throat as his large, calloused hands slide over warm skin. 

He seems content to explore now, so she ceases the roaming of her own hands in favor of just enjoying his attentions and providing him with ample feedback. Not a difficult task as his hands move up her thighs and over her abdomen. His caress is slow and deliberate, gooseflesh prickling across her skin. As his fingers move higher, she holds her breath, anticipation winding so tightly that when he finally traces the curve of her breast, she lets a whimpered note of pleasure. 

Byleth doesn’t shy away this time, but he draws back enough to watch her reactions. The intensity of his eyes does as much to take her breath away as his touch, his hand coming up to cover her breast. His caress is warm and gentle at first, his fingers kneading just so as he gains confidence. The moment his thumb brushes her already-hardened nipple, she doesn’t bother to downplay her reaction. She arches into his hand, the sensation made all the better by the way his eyes darken, by the visible breath he draws as he watches her. 

He doesn’t continue immediately. To her surprise and delight, he seizes the hem of her gown and lifts it upward. Dorothea gladly accommodates, the chill autumn night barely reaching her between the fire and how flushed she already is. For the briefest moment she feels a touch of self-conscious insecurity, hoping he likes what he sees. But those fears--already weakened after months spent with him--are abolished completely as his gaze roves shamelessly over her body.

Plenty of men have admired her in the past. She knows her most attractive qualities, her strongest assets, and she’s never been particularly shy about them. But there’s a clear difference between a man who looks at her with single-minded lust in his eyes and… this. Looking at Byleth, she sees wonder, reverence, and such a wealth of love that her own heart suddenly feels as if it might burst. 

“And here I thought you were going to spoil me before. When you look at me like that…” 

He meets her gaze, a soft smile curving his lips. It tips into a smirk soon after, a playful glint in his eyes that she’d love to see more often. “I’d suggest you get used to it, then, because I have no plans to stop.” 

“Good. Though…” She glances down at his hand gripping her thigh, helping to support her. A lovely feeling, but not so conducive to exploration. Especially when she’s trembling a bit already, her willpower melting under that gaze. “Maybe we should give ourselves a bit more room.” 

He follows her gesture as she inclines her chin toward the bed, and when she looks back at him, there’s the faintest bit of pink in his cheeks. Seeing it reminds her of her own decently-concealed nerves, because for as much as she wants this and as confident as she’s been thus far, there’s a part of her that’s well aware this is different from any other time. It’s not a simple expression of physical desire, but something meant to affirm the bond that exists between them. It’s deeply emotional in a way Dorothea’s never experienced before, making some parts of tonight completely new territory for her. 

Any shyness she feels instantly dissipates as he lifts her with him, though. She lets out a surprised squeak, then a laugh as her arms loop around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist. The feeling of skin against skin is blissful, the heat between them more than enough to warm the room as she kisses him hungrily. The slightest, appreciative growl in the back of his throat sends tingles over her entire body, something inside of her responding to that almost possessive note. 

Even when he lays her down on the bed, she doesn’t part from him beyond what’s absolutely necessary. Her nails press into his shoulders and her legs hook around him once more, drawing him down with her. Whatever patience she’d found has fled for the moment, but fortunately Byleth seems as caught up in this as she is. 

He kisses her with abandon, his hands moving over her thighs and hips. His mouth blazes a trail down her neck again, but this time he doesn’t stop at her shoulder. He continues on, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. She lets out a gasp and arches up against him, both hands buried in his hair as he continues. 

With no guidance beyond the increasingly shortened breaths she takes, he moves southward until his lips skim the sensitive skin of her breast. Dorothea’s breath seizes, anticipation coiling within her like the tightest spring just begging to snap. He must misinterpret her sudden stillness, though, because he looks up at her. She can’t manage any words. All she can do is shake her head, her fingers stroking through his hair. 

It’s enough to communicate, and she’s glad for it. 

His exploration becomes slower, more purposeful as his lips caress her. The closer he draws to her nipple, the more erratic her breathing becomes. And when his lips finally press against the tightened flesh, she lets out a soft moan, wound more tightly than she’s sure she’s ever been. It’s certainly enough of a cue for Byleth, because he focuses his attention exactly where she wants him, his tongue joining soon after. When he finally draws the taut peak between his lips, she arches off the bed, her leg curling more tightly around him, her fingers gripping more desperately in his hair.

As quick a study as ever, he learns what she responds to most. Firmer pressure, the slightest pinch of fingers and teeth. Every attentive action from him winds her tighter and tighter, until she can’t take it anymore.

Leveraging the strength in her thighs and the fact that he’s otherwise distracted, Dorothea flips their position, pressing him into the mattress. Her hair cascades over her shoulder and she brushes it out of the way, only to find him looking up at her with such intense adoration. 

“Second instruction,” she says, leaning down to murmur the words against his lips. “You’re not the only one who has to learn, and certainly not the only one who wants to. I’ll be taking cues from you, too.” 

“So I shouldn’t try to be as stoic as possible,” he teases with a smirk. 

“You can try…” Her lips curve into a challenging smile, and she almost hopes he will. 

She draws him into a kiss, that fire building even more as he eagerly responds. As tempting as it is to linger, she very much wants to begin the task of mapping out the lines of his body with her lips, something she’s long dreamed about. She kisses a path down his throat, adding a nip before she continues southward, following a path similar to the one he took. As her mouth trails down to his chest, though, she shifts so that her hand can easily travel along his body. Starting at his thigh, she relishes the twitch of muscle as she moves inward, then dips back out to smooth over his stomach, her nails scratching lightly along the soft dusting of hair that disappears beneath his pants. 

His breath hitches, the rapid rise of his chest impossible to miss. She relents long enough to press tender kisses along the scarred flesh there, trying not to pay too much mind to the deep ache in her heart as she does so. If she could somehow erase those scars--and the far deeper emotional scars that accompany them--she’d do it in a heartbeat. But all she can do now is make sure he understands how glad she is that he’s still alive. 

A fact she sets out to prove by thoroughly distracting him, her tongue flicking over the flat of one nipple. His answering gasp is vindication enough, though he also tangles a hand in her hair, fingers curling tightly as his other hand grips her hip.

Byleth doesn’t attempt to play the losing game of feigned indifference as she continues, and so she rewards him by drifting her attentions further south. Her hand moves over his hip and inward, her palm brushing decisively over his length. Concealed from her by fabric, there’s still no doubt that he’s responding to all of this. He’s firm against her hand, and when she strokes him, the moan he lets out is positively sinful, sending a shiver through her as well.

Emboldened by his response, she shifts on the bed, her lips trailing down his chest to his abdomen, the muscles jumping reflexively beneath her attentions. She pulls back enough to hook her fingers into the band of his pants, meeting his gaze as she tugs downward. The hunger she sees in his eyes, the intense desire _for her_ is such a heady feeling, and so very empowering. 

It also destroys what little patience she has, and once his pants are down far enough that he can kick them off, she does the same to his smallclothes. He helps her with the last, already prepared to lift off the bed and pull them past his knees. Before long, he’s completely bared to her, and she’s not remotely shy about appreciating the sight. 

“I don’t know if you know this about me,” she says in a near purr, “but I’m not very good at delaying gratification.” 

She doesn’t give him the chance to respond, taking him in hand, stroking over the length of him. He’s searing hot against her palm, his flesh responsive as she moves her hand over him. She watches him, desire building within her as he reacts without restraint, giving himself over to her completely. His head falls back against the mattress, his eyes close, his lips part, and she’s certain he’s never looked more beautiful than he does right now. 

On some level, Dorothea is conscious of the fact that she probably shouldn’t overwhelm him. If he’s inexperienced, he won’t be able to handle much more direct attention. On the other hand, she somehow doubts a man who’s merged with the progenitor god will have any trouble recovering, and besides--tonight is about making the most of everything they have. She wants to share this experience with him, to share everything with him, and there’s no reason to hold back. 

Shifting further on the bed, she kisses along the sharp line of his pelvis, her teeth lightly scraping along the bone. Painting a trail along his inner thigh, she pauses just long enough to watch him once more as her lips drag slowly over his length. 

He gasps and her name falls from his lips like a benediction, sweeter than she’s ever heard it spoken before. His fingers thread through her hair, but he doesn’t try to direct her. He gives her complete authority over his pleasure, and she makes the most of it, lavishing attention upon him with lips and tongue, seeking out what he responds to most. 

It doesn’t take long for his thighs to start shaking, his muscles tensed in effort to stave off the inevitable. 

“Thea… I…” Even his voice is rough and raw, shaking just as much as his overtaxed muscles.

It’s a warning, but not one she heeds. She redoubles her efforts instead, her hand joining her mouth. And as it slowly dawns on him that she doesn’t plan on pulling away, Dorothea gets to experience the deeply satisfying pleasure of knowing he’s put his complete trust in her. 

When his body tenses, his fingers clenching, curling tight in her hair, Dorothea guides him to that very last step of letting go, rewarded by the low moan that rumbles through her consciousness as release takes him. Only then does she ease off, watching his reactions, reveling in the love she can practically feel radiating from him afterward. 

She gives him an almost shy smile and moves back up the bed. Byleth immediately draws her into a deep, passionate kiss while the taste of him is still on her lips, and she knows she was right in assuming it wouldn’t take him long to recover. 

When he pulls back, though, he almost looks ashamed, and that just won’t do. “Sorry, that… happened much quicker than I wanted…” 

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she says, brushing her lips to his. “The night’s far from over. Besides, it’s not like that was _completely_ for your benefit. I like having you at my mercy.” 

His lips curve into a slow smile that sends a shiver racing down her spine. “Do you now?” 

She knows what he intends to do before he does it. That look in his eyes is a dead giveaway. She certainly doesn’t resist, though. Being handled so adeptly by him--flipped easily onto her back, with him over top of her--makes her heart race in a way she can’t fully describe. There’s a level of trust there that she’s certainly never felt with anyone else, and these easy displays of that trust just remind her that she’s so very, very lucky to have him in her life.

He wastes no time, kissing a trail down her chest that sends fire rippling over her skin. He’s confident, sure of what she enjoys because she wasn’t remotely shy about letting him know. But he doesn’t linger there, and as his lips caress further downward, she can feel him beginning to lose a bit of that certainty. 

She frames his face with her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheeks as she gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile amid the desire that’s currently taking up the majority of her mind. She almost tells him she doesn’t expect or require him to reciprocate, but she knows he wants to. And frankly, everything in her is currently hyper-aware of his breath on her thigh, his fingers hooked into her last remaining piece of clothing, so close without quite granting relief. She desperately needs this, needs him to take ownership of her pleasure, even if it takes a bit of guidance to get him there.

She lifts up, the garment sliding over her hips and further down before it’s cast aside. There’s barely time to bask in the way his eyes darken as he takes in the sight of her before he finally touches her, fingers brushing slick folds. He glides easily, gently exploring, and one of Dorothea’s hands clutches his braced arm while the other tangles in his hair. What he’s doing now feeds the fire that’s been building in her since they began, but her body demands more, and Dorothea finally voices that demand in the form of instruction.

“A bit higher,” she breathes, the words barely managing to make it past her throat. 

Byleth complies, and the second he does, her back arches off the mattress as she lets out a low moan. His long, dextrous fingers find a rhythm to match her in no time, his confidence clearly growing. And just when she thinks he’s going to fully bring her to climax with his hand alone, he shifts on the bed and paints a searing trail of kisses over her inner thigh before tracing the same route his fingers had taken with his tongue.

He looks up at her, possibly for guidance, but Dorothea’s too far gone to give it in any coherent way. Her response is surely guidance enough, her hips rising of their own accord, to the point where he has to brace his arm over her to make sure she stays where he wants her. She says his name in a way he must like, because his efforts become more focused, more concentrated on pushing her past the limits of what she can endure. 

When she finally breaks, it’s a complete and utter shattering. She’s always been self-conscious, always afraid of looking vulnerable in front of a partner, but not this time. Not with him. She lets go completely and is rewarded by his adoring gaze never straying from her. 

As she starts to come down, her limbs still shaking, breath still ragged, she tries ineffectively to pull him to her. Byleth lets out a self-satisfied chuckle and complies, meeting her for a lingering kiss. 

“Trying to become the teacher’s pet, I see,” she teases, stroking his jaw and neck in a way that’s almost reverent. 

“Is it working?” His hand moves over her body in a languid caress, her overtaxed muscles barely able to respond. 

“Mm. A little more extra credit, and I’ll consider it.” 

A smile curves her lips as she kisses him again, an overwhelming sense of happiness filling her. To be with him in this way, to share everything with him… it’s all she imagined and so much more. She could fall asleep in his arms now and be perfectly content. 

But that isn’t to say she’s fully sated. Satisfied, yes. More than satisfied. But she’d gladly stay awake with him through the night, until they’re both too exhausted to do anything but collapse. It seems Byleth shares that desire, as he doesn’t show any interest in sleeping. He hasn’t stopped touching her, and Dorothea certainly isn’t of a mind to complain about that. 

What begins as tender, meandering affirmation slowly gains more purpose as the banked embers of desire are stoked into a roaring flame once more. Her body begins to ache with a very specific need, and she doesn’t shy away from communicating it, reaching between them to take him in hand as she whispers against his lips. 

“You have no idea how much I want you.” A fine tremor of anticipation makes its way through her words, helped along by the way he looks at her when she says it.

“I may have some idea,” he answers, his own voice strained. “But can we… I don’t want to put you at risk, now of all times…” 

At first, she doesn’t have the slightest clue what he’s talking about, desire clouding her senses. Her confusion must be clear on her face, because he continues.

“After the war, after everything’s settled, I’d love to… if that’s what you want, of course.” 

Dorothea blushes once the pieces finally come together in her mind. He continues to ramble nervously, adorably, until she puts a stop to it by kissing him. 

“I’d love that, too,” she says, admitting it even to herself for the very first time. “After the war. For now, though…” Her fingers thread into his hair, a smile on her lips. “This monastery is filled with women who know how to mitigate the risk, myself included.” 

“The tea you drink in the morning…” A flush rises in his cheeks as it dawns on him. 

“Just in case.” 

She kisses him again, waiting for him to fully realize what all of that means. When he does, she can feel the surge of desire in his response, his mouth slanted more firmly against hers, his hands painting a fevered trail over her body. 

There’s no restraint in him right now, and considering how very reserved he usually is, Dorothea is beyond pleased at the turn. Even more so as he gradually positions himself, so close but not nearly as close as she wants him. 

When he breaks the kiss to wordlessly seek one final piece of guidance, she gladly provides it. “Go slow at first, but know that I’m not all that fragile.” 

He nods, and even if she isn’t sure he fully understands what she means, he will soon enough.

At first, he follows her advice a little too well, pressing into her in a way that’s agonizingly slow. For as impatient as she is, though, Dorothea soon comes to appreciate it. She can feel him, feel her body’s reaction as she adjusts to him, then the blissfully torturous ache as her muscles clench around him, drawing him deeper. 

Byleth lets out a groan, shuddering at her response. She strokes his face, a gentle and loving caress as he leans down to capture her mouth once more, pressing deeper into her. Dorothea arches against him, her moan muffled by his lips, her hands moving to his shoulders. 

When he fully seats himself inside of her, their bodies joined so completely, she feels an overwhelming surge of emotion that only heightens the physical pleasure. To experience something so intimately with the man she loves more than anything, to see him be vulnerable and to share her vulnerabilities with him… there are no words to express that feeling. All she can do is kiss him again, giving him a glimpse of what’s in her heart. 

She knows he understands, because she can feel it in his response. It’s enough to bring the sting of tears to her eyes, but she fights back against them lest he get the wrong idea. The last thing she wants right now is for him to stop. 

Thankfully, Byleth also follows the second part of her advice. His first strokes are slow, feeling out the way their bodies move together. Once she helps him set a rhythm, though, her hips rising to meet him, he picks up the pace. Arching against him, she wraps her legs around him and draws him even deeper, the feeling sheer, white-hot bliss.

If she could keep them both suspended in this moment forever, she’d gladly do it, but her body is wound too tightly for that. Even with the earlier release, she’s wanted him for so long that it’s next to impossible to pace herself or delay the inevitable. 

So she doesn’t bother. Instead, she gives herself over to it--to him--completely. She breaks against him, the strength of her release surpassing the one before. Her cries are muffled against his mouth, swallowed in the wake of his own moans as her muscles clench even more tightly around him, drawing him to that same point. He thrusts into her one last time before letting go just as she did, his face an unrestrained picture of pleasure.

She sees him through it even as the aftershocks roll through her, drawing every last bit of sensation out of her body. Once it finally subsides, she all but sinks into the mattress, boneless. Byleth rests atop her, his weight against her making her feel safe and loved while giving her ego a bit of a boost, too. With an outcome like this, she can’t be a half bad teacher. 

Once they’re both able to move again, they part just long enough to situate themselves into a more comfortable position. Exhaustion makes everything a struggle, and Dorothea’s never been more grateful for his strength as his arms come around her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“I love you, Thea. So much.” The words are murmured with such desperation that it’s impossible not to hear what he’s truly saying.

_Please don’t ever leave me._

She tilts her head to kiss him, the angle a bit awkward, but the contact necessary. Her fingers gently stroke his arms, and she chooses her words with care, even as sleep threatens to overtake her. 

“I’m yours, Byleth. And I always will be.”


	15. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute! Bet you thought I abandoned this fic. I did not--not at all. I've been poking away at it a bit every day, things have just been crazy and I've been in a more self-conscious state than usual, so writing was like pulling teeth. I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the wait. It's a dual POV one! Crazy, I know.
> 
> I'm afraid it's going to be angst city for a little bit here, though. Until after the fight with Edelgard.

Enbarr looks nothing like it did.

Her memories of the capital aren’t especially rose-tinted. She recalls very keenly the feeling of scurrying through the streets, trying to keep out of sight of the guards. Scrounging and begging and doing what she had to do to get by. She’ll never forget the cruelty shown by some of the more privileged citizens, nor the apathy shown by the rest. 

For all of that, Enbarr was still her home. It was the place she was first made to believe that her life could be worth something. The place where her talent was cultivated, her reputation nourished by the stage until it blossomed into something radiant--for a time. It’s still the place where many of her friends reside, and the place she’d always imagined returning to one day.

Somehow she’d never imagined it quite like this.

While so much of Fódlan is war-torn, Enbarr has largely escaped that fate. Only the outer gates have ever been breached thus far, and the damage there is minimal. The true change is the overwhelming military presence. It’s impossible to push into the city without encountering a tide of soldiers. They flood in from every district, crowding the narrow streets, constructing impenetrable blockades and assembling battalions behind them. There are more barracks, more guard towers, more checkpoints--all built for the purpose of funneling invaders to their demise. 

But Byleth is the best tactician she’s ever known. His powers grant him a level of foresight that’s unmatched, and he leads them through a side route to flank one of the largest battalions. They’re able to secure a forward camp, and as rain batters the streets of Enbarr, Dorothea prepares to lead her own troops for a mission that’s incredibly important to her. 

“I wish I could offer you more,” Seteth tells her, “but I’m afraid we need most of our wyvern riders focused on taking out the artillery.” 

Dorothea shakes her head, offering him a weary smile. She still isn’t ready for this. “Three is more than enough, especially with Ferdinand’s cavalry support.” 

As if appearing on cue like the hero of some sweeping ballad, Ferdinand eases his horse to a stop and dismounts before her. “We are ready, at your command.” 

A small battalion is assembled behind him. Mostly lancers and spearmen, but there are a couple of mages in the mix, as well. . 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dorothea says, the joke lacking any conviction. “Thank you for doing this, Ferdie. I know you and I haven’t always had the same goals, but you’ve done more for the commonfolk than most.” 

After the siege of Garreg Mach, Ferdinand helped her rescue survivors trapped in the village. He’d even stayed for a couple of weeks before it became necessary for him to flee, the weight of his family name carrying him elsewhere. It’d gone a long way to bridge the rift between them, and made it easy to believe him when he finally cleared up the misconceptions she’d held for years. 

“I have a responsibility to everyone in the Empire. Not just those of noble birth. If I am to have a crest and a title, then I must use them with that in mind.”

There’s something less condescending in those words now. She remembers thinking he was no different from Lorenz, all those years ago. Maybe it’s just her own perception, but now he truly does seem to understand the power he wields over others by the mere fact of his birth.

The thought makes her think of Edie, and her heart twists for what must be the thousandth time in just a few days. That’s always been the most frustrating thing about all of this. She can understand why Edelgard wants to build a new world--she even thinks it’s necessary, and she knows Byleth does, too. But the cost is too great. Even with Dorothea’s efforts today, countless innocents will die. Have _already_ died. 

“If your men are ready, then.” 

Ferdinand tightens the cinch on his horse’s saddle and checks his assembled soldiers, despite having done so before they pressed into the outer district. She’s thankful for the caution, and when he hefts himself into the saddle and tells her with all his usual gusto that they’re ready, Dorothea is confident that’s the case. 

Her heart begins to race, an obvious fit of nerves reaching her. It’s not just the weight of what she’s about to attempt, though--not merely the idea of commanding a section of their troops, or being responsible for the lives of people who have no other means of escape. The fear that carves such a deep chasm into her is the one that whispers in the back of her mind, telling her she’s never going to see Byleth again. 

They’ve come so far and she’s grown so much since she met him, but it isn’t enough. She wants years with him--decades, if there’s any justice in the world. The commitment has thus far gone unspoken, but she’s already promised him the rest of her life, and she desperately needs it to be a long and peaceful one. 

She scans the assembled units, searching for him, only to find he’s already cutting through the crowd, his gaze intent on her. Dorothea’s heart still stutters at that look, and she hopes it always will. The day she takes such things for granted is the day she no longer deserves them. Fortunately, that day isn’t today. She’s grateful for it, her heart feeling the tiniest bit lighter, her burdens shared by a man who has many of his own. 

“We’re ready to start sweeping the outer districts,” she says, wanting so badly to touch him, that contact feeling necessary for some reason. 

He hasn’t said they need to refrain from public displays, but it’s not exactly the time to indulge her own silly whims. She’ll have the opportunity later. She has to believe that, or all of this will come crashing down. 

To her surprise, though, Byleth doesn’t seem constrained by propriety. He reaches for her, his gloved palm warm on her cheek. Those eyes that have begun to show such a vast range of emotion are only for her in that moment, and when he leans in to kiss her, nothing else matters. 

How is it possible to find so much comfort in one simple action? It fills her heart, spreading through her body like the warmth of a fire on a cold winter’s night. There is more after this. She’s sure of it, and when he draws back, she smiles up at him, her own hand resting on his chest, just above his heart. 

“Be careful,” he whispers. 

“I will. I’ll meet back up with you at the gates to the palace district,” she says, taking a step back from him before she allows herself to bask in the only certainty she has right now. 

As she grips the horn of her saddle, pulling herself atop an even-tempered mare, she finally notices that they were not, in fact, alone. Some of her former classmates are nearby, their troops at the ready. Petra smiles in a way Dorothea hasn’t seen from her for months. Caspar--more subdued and mature now, after five years of fighting--stands beside her, a grin stretching his lips. 

And Bernie--

“So no one’s going to say anything about this?” She sits atop a lean gelding, a team of archers behind her. “I can’t be the only one who didn’t know.” 

“Come on, Bernadetta,” Caspar shifts his war axe to the opposite shoulder, “Dorothea’s been making eyes at the professor since day one, and he’s not much better.” 

“I knew _that_. I’m not blind, just… not out of my room all that much.” She says the last more to herself than anyone else. “But there’s a difference between that and, um. This.” 

“If it is being a secret, then it is kept with poorness,” Petra chimes in, her smile still in place. 

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Linhardt agrees. “Though don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’ve finally abandoned the very flimsy pretense.”

“We weren’t trying to hide it,” Byleth says, his expression amused. “It’s just…” 

“A bit secondary to the war,” Dorothea agrees. “Speaking of...” 

She inclines her chin toward Ferdinand and he grips the reins, bringing his hearty warhorse around to flank hers. Her head spins, her heart unable to even process the sheer joy at knowing her classmates are accepting of the relationship she has with their former professor. It wouldn’t have stopped her--she’s in too deep now to feel self-conscious about any of it, and certainly too deep to let those feelings rule her--but it’s good to know she has their support just the same. 

The part of her that’s still eighteen, fresh-faced and vibrant, wants to sit and gossip with Petra or the old friends she hasn’t seen in years. But the woman who shifts her weight in the saddle of a lean destrier knows many of those friendships didn’t survive the war. Even if they had, there’s too much at stake. Maybe once this is all over, she can indulge in youthful wishes. 

Casting one more meaningful glance at Byleth, she directs her unit deeper into the district, Ferdinand at her side. Their first sweep is a deceptively simple one. There are people barricaded in their homes and places of business, and those who agree to leave the city until the fighting is done are given an escort to a small fort outside the capital that Byleth has secured for that purpose alone. 

Some refuse to leave, despite Dorothea’s pleas. There was a time when she might have agreed with them; a time when she wouldn’t have left the home she’d found at the opera. But home has become such a malleable thing to her, and being in one place isn’t nearly as important as being with the people she loves. Perhaps that’s ultimately why some decide to stay. They have large families and no means to care for them elsewhere. 

It’s disheartening, but understandable, and it puts Dorothea in a somber mood as they ride on.

“I cannot say I like this expression on you, Dorothea,” Ferdinand says, his voice rising over the rhythmic clop of hooves on cobblestone streets. 

Annoyance bleeds into her features. He’s always been so good at unintentionally putting his foot in his mouth. She knows him well enough now to understand there’s nothing meant by it, though, so she remains quiet.

“We are helping people. Saving lives. But you do not look pleased.” 

“I am,” she says, a bit of guilt washing over her. “Every person we evacuate is one more person who will make it through this siege. I just… wish there was a way to ensure none of these people would die.” 

She waits for him to say that’s the price they pay by living in the capital. Every part of her bristles, eager to snap at him if he dares. Perhaps she hasn’t completely let go of old feuds after all. 

But Ferdinand has changed, and she knows her views of nobles shouldn’t be applied to the people who’ve fought by her side for years.

“As do I. It does not ever feel like enough, does it? I wonder if it ever will be, even when this is over.” 

She looks over at him, catching something in his profile she’s never noticed before. He really has taken the weight of the world on his shoulders. The demands of his intended position, perhaps? It’s something he’s been preparing for all his life, and it’ll soon be time for him to take up the mantle in a world that’s entirely different from the one he was born into.

She doesn’t envy him. 

“Maybe not,” she concedes, her tone growing even more somber. “But I believe things will be better. They certainly can’t be worse than this.” 

It feels like a dangerous thing to say, considering everything they’ve experienced. It very well _could_ be worse than this, and she knows it. But she has to believe this is all building to something; that this war isn’t for nothing.

As they sweep the district, Dorothea is all-too-aware of how close they’re coming to the adjacent areas--specifically the district that houses the palace. Enbarr is built on a surprisingly well thought out grid, with most of the districts connecting in some form or another. Useful on most days. Dangerous on this one. Especially when she can hear the sound of hooves thundering in the distance, wings beating against the sky. 

They move swiftly to reach as many people as possible. Those living closer to the palace seem to understand the peril inherent in just being near their Emperor right now, and they agree to leave. There aren’t nearly enough wyverns or horses to ferry them all away, so they’re forced to keep watch over the families who’ve decided to evacuate as riders travel back and forth in staggered waves. 

It isn’t long before Ferdinand fills the silence again, though she can’t say she minds. Even when the choice of topic is mildly irritating, she’d much rather listen to him than be alone with her own thoughts. Lately she’s become as melancholy as…

_...As Edie._

“I know you do not require my opinion on the matter, but I am happy for you, Dorothea.” 

She blinks over at him, her horse mouthing at the tender shoots of grass that have cracked the cobblestone. The mount is completely unperturbed by the sounds of an advancing army, and she wishes she could be, too.

“You and the professor both,” he continues, answering her unasked question. “You deserve happiness. You have been through so much.” 

A blush colors her cheeks and she looks down. “Thank you, Ferdie. That’s incredibly sweet.” She doesn’t intend to say the words that follow, but they’re put into the world before she can stop them. “Though I don’t know what makes me any more deserving of this happiness than anyone else. So many people are losing the ones they love in this war.” 

“Forgive me, but that is simply not a fair comparison to make,” he says emphatically. “Your happiness does not deprive someone else of theirs, Dorothea. And _because_ you are happy--because you have someone to live for--you are able to give others a chance they might not have otherwise.” 

He makes a sweeping gesture to indicate the houses around them. Dorothea is tempted to argue, because she would have done this regardless of her relationship with Byleth. But… he’s certainly made it into something she feels she _needs_ to do. Something she knows he supports her in doing. 

And Ferdinand is right. He’s given her something to live for. The beautiful possibilities that stretch before them, begging her to hold on just a little longer. To fight harder even though she’s so tired. 

“That’s a good point,” she says, giving him a fond smile. “You know, you--” 

She doesn’t get a chance to finish the words. Something screams through the air, a ball of red-hot fire impacting the side of a nearby wall. The resulting explosion sounds strangely distant, even as she watches it happen as if in slow motion. It detonates amid the stone, sending piercing shards in every direction. Her horse--trained for war as it is--doesn’t flee. It takes her command, darting nimbly to the side. Ferdinand rides at her flank, shield out, blocking some of the shrapnel from reaching her. 

“Go!” he urges, but Dorothea’s attention is fixed on the people who are still waiting to be retrieved.

“Not without them.” 

Another fireball, another explosion, this one detonating inside one of the thankfully empty houses. Wood splinters, jagged spears of it sent flying. One of them embeds deep in her arm and Dorothea cries out in pain, tears springing to her eyes. She knows it’s a terrible idea, but she ignores it and dismounts in a hurry, motioning to a young father who’s holding a wailing baby girl.

“Take my horse. Ride east, and don’t stop until you reach the fort,” she tells him, a desperate edge to her voice. 

The man just nods, carefully passing the infant to his other daughter--a girl who can’t be much older than ten--before he mounts the horse, then offers a hand. First for the baby, then for her. Another explosion shakes the ground beneath her as the family rides away, leaving Dorothea in the middle of hell itself.

The rain makes little difference: Enbarr is burning all around her. In the few moments it took to ensure the safety of one man and his daughters, she’s managed to get herself in deeper than she ever expected. Two houses smolder on either side of her, burning beams falling just feet away. Fireballs and cannon blasts streak the sky, and she can see Byleth’s army clashing with the Imperial forces through the crumbling wall. 

There’s nowhere for her to go, and adrenaline pumps through her veins as she begins to realize that horrifying fact.

“Dorothea!” Ferdinand’s voice is strained, and all she sees is the broad chest of his horse as he barrels toward her. 

His hand is outstretched, reaching for her. She feels the grip of it, the painful tug as her arm is yanked nearly out of its socket. She nearly reaches the saddle behind him when she catches sight of a terrible inferno hurtling toward them with deadly force. Ferdinand’s horse screams in agony, and her stomach lurches as she’s thrown backward. Time slows to a crawl. As she sails through the air she sees Ferdinand clinging tight to his horse, the creature staggering horribly. 

The smell of burning flesh sears her nostrils. The creak and groan of a collapsing structure is all she hears. She lands hard, rough cobblestone scraping against her back even through her armor. A splitting pain fills her skull, her vision going white. It clears just long enough for her to see the crumbling, smoldering wreckage of what once was a home come crashing toward her. 

*** 

With Sothis’ power, Byleth has become a better tactician than he ever could have imagined. But the cost of getting it right is something he never talks about. Not even with Thea. 

He’s seen nearly all of his students--his friends--cut down in battle. He’s watched Petra be struck out of the sky by a barrage of arrows, her lifeless body crumpling to the ground. He’s seen Bernadetta cornered by a demonic beast, the creature plucking her from her horse and snapping her in two. He’s seen Caspar continue fighting to his very last breath, even as a lance impales him straight through the gut. So many lives snuffed out, only to be brought back by tenuous threads of divinity. 

And each time, Byleth wonders if those threads are going to snap like they did when his father was killed. 

So far, fate has seen fit to spare him that reality a second time. It’s also spared him the torture of ever watching Thea die. He loves his students dearly--now that he’s embraced his own emotions, he can say that with confidence. But if watching each of them perish sparks agony within him, watching her die would be akin to having his soul ripped from his body. 

A feeling he comes to understand as they press deeper into Enbarr. 

He doesn’t have room in his conscious mind to worry too deeply over her. She’s a competent fighter and Ferdinand is with her, so he focuses his attention on securing the palace district for their final push. But Edelgard is no fool. She’s barricaded the district behind a nigh impenetrable wall of heavily armored knights, with mages and cannoneers behind them who seem solely responsible for blasting firepower into their back lines. 

A direct approach isn’t going to work. He realizes that immediately, and splits their forces into three units. One to hold the center, two others to flank on either side. Seteth leads one while he leads the other, cutting close to the outer district where many of the commoners reside. Where Thea is now. 

He sees the mages and cannoneers focus their attention on his unit specifically, likely given instruction to sever the head of the snake, an expression Edelgard was fond of using. Byleth realizes all too late the danger he poses to the innocent people of Enbarr. It’s not until fireballs begin to blast past him that he puts it together and understands exactly what it means. 

He orders his snipers to take out the back lines, all while moving the rest of his unit as swiftly as possible. But it’s not enough. The outer district comes under fire, sustaining such heavy damage that Byleth’s attention is drawn to the half-destroyed wall separating the two sections of Enbarr. His heart leaps into his throat and he can’t breathe for the longest moment, adrenaline spiking his blood with a hefty dose of panic. 

_She’s safe. She’s not in the midst of this. I would know._

A voice rings out, strained and desperate. All it takes is the utterance of one name to turn Byleth’s world upside down.

“Dorothea!” 

He scans the distance, cold dread washing over him as he recognizes Ferdinand’s voice. It’s easy enough to spot the man’s hair, bright orange amid the flames. Dorothea is nowhere to be seen at first, but after a moment, Byleth catches sight of her being hoisted into the saddle behind Ferdinand. 

He breathes again, relief flooding him. Relief that’s premature and short-lived, as a flaming ball of tar catapults toward the two of them. It slams into Ferdinand’s horse, and while he manages to hunker down and cling to the animal, his passenger isn’t so lucky.

Byleth doesn’t call out to her. It would be useless to even try. Instead he spurs his horse into a near-gallop. Soldiers scramble out of his way, but his focus is single-minded. Gripping the reins tightly, he presses low to his mount’s back as the mare jumps the crumbling wall. Barely a moment passes before he leaps from the saddle and runs at a full sprint. 

Time has already slowed. It’s dragged out, allowed him to see every error in judgment, every way in which this moment _will_ go wrong. And in a stunning show of cruelty, it forces him to watch the unthinkable while he’s too far away to do anything about it. 

The second floor of a burning residence begins to crumple in on itself, blazing beams falling, taking the rest of the structure with it. There’s no time for her to get away. No time for her even to protect herself with her arms. Instead, Byleth is given a front row seat as the entirety of the house collapses, trapping her underneath.

It feels as if he’s been instantly gutted. As if someone has sliced him stem to stern, taken his heart in hand, and mercilessly crushed it into a fine dust. In those moments he allows time to march on, Byleth feels… numb. Nothing exists inside of him--just a hollowed out void. Sharp misery howls so insistently at his ear, but even that can’t reach him. It’s as if his capacity to _feel_ is tied entirely to her, and now that she’s gone… 

Time flows erratically around him, shifting and rearranging while he remains still. Everything rewinds, pulling back to the moment where he first gave the orders to separate into three units. And when the flow of battle resumes, he jabs the heel of his boot into his horse’s flank and makes for the outer district, not bothering to explain. 

Again the mages target him, but he’s too fast as a single entity for them to pin down. With the wall unbroken, he’s forced to find an opening, but it isn’t far from there that he comes across Ferdinand and Thea. 

“Byleth?” Her eyes are wide as she takes in what he’s sure is a wild expression. “What are you--” 

“You both need to leave. Now.” 

He’s not usually so brusque, but there’s no time to be anything else. Thea looks to a young father and his two daughters, and for as much as Byleth understands how important it is for her to be here, he selfishly wishes she wasn’t.

“We can’t just leave these people here.” Emerald eyes meet his, pleading. “The wyvern riders will be back soon.” 

“Can you and your daughter ride?” he asks the man, the baby in his arms wailing.

“Y-yes, my lord,” the man stammers. “But I--” 

Byleth cuts him off with instructions for Ferdinand and Dorothea. Between the three of them, they’re only able to fit one extra rider each--along with the infant who’s swaddled tightly and kept close to her father’s breast. 

It all happens not a moment too soon. Fire rains from the sky, and Byleth leads the group through the outer district in a flurry of thundering hooves. Wyverns fly overhead, navigating the blasts as they swoop down to accommodate more people. In just a few minutes, the scene changes from one of absolute loss to a victory, with Dorothea able to accomplish what she set out to do--even if the last evacuations are rushed. 

For Byleth, the cost is staggeringly high. He’s still numb inside. Even seeing her, looking into her worried eyes, he can’t feel anything. 

“You saw something.” 

It isn’t a question. She can see right through him, even if he feels like there’s nothing inside him to see right now. He’s spent the last several minutes giving orders to Seteth’s wyvern riders, instructing them on which flank to rejoin. But Thea caught him the moment he pulled himself back into the saddle. 

He meets her gaze, and all he can do is nod, even as he witnesses her heart shattering on his behalf. It’s an exceptionally bitter comfort to know that he can’t feel, but her heart still beats for him. Just like she said it would. 

“Byleth, I--” 

“Byleth.” Seteth’s tone is firm, leaving no room for the words he can see in Dorothea’s eyes. 

He holds her gaze for a moment, wishing his would soften. When it doesn’t, he looks to the green-haired wyvern rider, his beast hovering overhead. 

“The path to the palace is clear. It is time."

It is time. Time to confront Edelgard. Now, at the end of this very long road, all Byleth can hope is that he’ll be able to feel something when he does it. She deserves that much from him, at the very least.


End file.
